Classic Poem

Softly sighs the April air,
Ere the coming of the May;
Of the tranquil night aware,
Murmur nightingale and jay;
Then, when dewy dawn doth rise,
Every bird in his own tongue
Wakes his mate with happy cries;
All their joy abroad is flung.

Gladness, lo! is everywhere
When the first leaf sees the day;
And shall I alone despair,
Turning from sweet love away?
Something to my heart replies,
Thou too wast for rapture strung;
Wherefore else the dreams that rise
Round thee when the year is young?

One, than Helen yet more fair,
Loveliest blossom of the May,
Rose-tints hath and sunny hair,
And a gracious mien and gay;
Heart that scorneth all disguise,
Lips where pearls of truth are hung,—
God, who gives all sovereignties,
Knows her like was never sung.

Though she lead through long despair,
I would never say her nay,
If one kiss—reward how rare!—
Each new trial might repay.
Swift returns I'd then devise,
Many labors, but not long.
Following so fair a prize
I could nevermore go wrong.