Classic Poem

She set the heavy washbasket down by the stile;
And lay down, herself, in the shade, in a fragrant bed
Of wood-sanicle and sweet-woodruff, glad for a while
To be out of the steamy wash-house: when, over her head,
A wren piped out its shrill little roundelay:
And as she, through low green branches, looked at the blue day,
It seemed to her that she was a lassie again,
With a heart that sang in her bosom like that little wren.