Classic Poem

Now the trees are on the air,
Now the flowers are in the vale,
Now the earth shows sweet and fair
As our mother's tale.

Bright is every violet's eye,
Yellow-deep the cowslip hues,
Where the wide-winged butterfly
Feeds herself with dews.

But the rising wind away
Turns the flower-bells bending low,
And the thunder-clouds do say
Their sublimest now.

Leaps the flashing sword of light,
Rushes breeze and hisses rain;
Yet the trees are laughing bright
At the watery gain.