Classic Poem

Think not that this enchanted isle
Wherein I dwell, some days a king,
Postpones till June its tardy smile,
And only knows imagined spring.

Not yet my lilies are in bloom;
But lo! my cherry, bridal-white,
Whose sweetness fills my sunny room,
The bees, and me, with one delight.

And on the brink of Lanham Brook
The laughing cowslips catch mine eye,
As on the bridge I stop to look
At the stray blossoms loitering by.

Our almond-willow waves its plumes
In contrast with the dark-haired pine,
And in the morning sun perfumes
The lane almost like summer's vine.

Dear Poet! shouldst thou tread with me,
Even in the spring, these woodland ways,
Under thy foot the violet see,
And overhead the maple sprays.

Thou mightst forego thy Charles's claim,
To wander by our stream awhile:
So should these meadows grow to fame,
And all the Muses haunt our Isle.