Classic Poem

Now sweeps the wind down from the waking hills,
Moist with the tears of winter's closing eye;
Now swells the heart, and we forget the ills
Of all the frozen days that are gone by.
But all was dear to me; the ice-lipped stream
Complaining to the listless grass that hung
In undisturbed monotony; the dream
That held the drooping cedars; men have sung
Their sweetest songs of these gray, quiet days,
For Nature's melancholy strikes the noblest chords she plays.

Oh, strange, sweet time, when life's renewing force
Begins to tingle through all Nature's veins;
The yellow river blusters in his course,
Fierce with the gathered strength of constant rains.
The close-cut willow shakes her tawny mane,
The banks put on a daring touch of green,
The fields begin to dream of growing grain,
Far in the sky returning flocks are seen,
Among the pines they wheel with clamor loud;
The squadrons of the sky stand out in heavy lines of cloud.

The polished, wiry branches of the beech
Hold still some faded last year's leaves; the oak
Stands grimly yet, as though he fain would teach
The elm in patience, while her buds invoke
The dark'ning skies for gentler days to come.
The moss glows on the dogwood's moistened stem.
The maple's lacing branches catch the hum
Of voices in the air that talk with them;
The night comes swift, the heavy drops have ceased,
The crimson blushing clouds seek now the gray veil of the east.