Classic Poem

Hark to the merry birds, hark how they sing!
— Although 'tis not yet spring
— — And keen the air;
Hale Winter, half resigning ere he go,
— Doth to his heiress shew
— — His kingdom fair.

In patient russet is his forest spread,
— All bright with bramble red,
— — With beechen moss
And holly sheen: the oak silver and stark
— Sunneth his aged bark
— — And wrinkled boss.

But neath the ruin of the withered brake
— Primroses now awake
— — From nursing shades:
The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown
— Avails not to keep down
— — The hyacinth blades.

The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed;
— The willow's flossy tuft
— — Hath slipped him free:
The rose amid her ransacked orange hips
— Braggeth the tender tips
— — Of bowers to be.

A black rook stirs the branches here and there,
— Foraging to repair
— — His broken home:
And hark, on the ash-boughs! Never thrush did sing
— Louder in praise of spring,
— — When spring is come.