Classic Poem

In the moonlit meadow my darling singeth;
My love that is mine since yesterday;
To the cope of heaven her pure voice ringeth,
And my heart beats time to her roundelay.

The moon dips lower; the stars peep over;
They seem to flutter their silver wings;
And down by her feet, 'mid the scented clover,
The crickets are quavering drowsy things.

The birds, half 'wakened, call each other,
They twitter faintly the boughs among:
“Down in the meadow she waits her lover,
And sings, as we do, a mating song.”

The trees by the brookside bend to hear her:
The voice grows stronger; the clear tones rise;
Till the spotted moth-king pauses near her
To bask in the light of her starry eyes.

I slip by the marshes, I steal through the clover,
Like the stealthy breeze of the fragrant South;
To greet her, my darling, and claim, like a lover,
The sweet of the song from her flower-like mouth.