Classic Poem

The birds heard it and straightway trilled it,
Through meadow and copse, with a will;
Down in the woodland they whistled and shrilled it,
As if they would never be still.

The brook listened and caught the measure,
Tinkling, tinkling over its bed,
And kept repeating at its own wild pleasure,
Sweetest words ever were said.

The winds, themselves, the burden carried,
Set to the tune of the singing rain,
And the morning stars in their courses, tarried,
To echo the tender strain.

Brook, bird and wind, and stars a-singing,
The music of all the spheres,
O, sweeter then your melodious singing,
Was his whisper in my ears.