Classic Poem

I in my pilgrimage have climbed a hill
Round which a summer world in verdure lies;
But I, poor simpleton, have only eyes
To note if Love be in my vision still.
This greenest glade that hides a fresh'ning rill
May shade him till from slumber he arise;
Or, when the last shower-sprinkled blossom dries
From yonder bloomy tangle, he may fill
This restless air with song that oft he sang
In the dear valley we have left behind,
Where once our mingled voices cheer'ly rang.
My Love! I hear thee singing down the wind!
Brief storm may ravine: what is that to me,
Sheltered within thine arms and safe with thee?