Classic Poem

Under the snow
Are roots to blow
So soon with daffodils,
And buds prepare
The cowslips' wear,
Buried below the hills.

Within the brake
So soon shall wake
The building birds to sing,
And folded now
In every bough
Are bridals of the Spring.

Shall Love be lost
In tardy frost
When other flowers are free?
Or less than birds
Shake happy words
As blossoms from the tree?

O Love, make haste
Or time will waste
The habit of your lute,
Prepare your string
To play the Spring,
Or be for ever mute.