Classic Poem

Here, in this bower, greenest of summer nooks,
The wild Bee's mew, the Violet's hiding-place,
Listening the bickerings of two brawling brooks,
We sat, and watched them wrangle and embrace;
Till tired of this, one of her choicest books
I drew from forth its hold, which she 'gan trace,
But I could nothing read, save her fair face —
Its eyes, its smiles, and fond tale-telling looks —
Oh comment sweet, the poet's text excelling!
I heard her voice, but naught of what she said;
And all she spake in love, and all she read,
Wrapt in the music of her lips, came swelling
Faintly but full, and sounded to my ears
Like an angel's voice singing above the spheres.