Classic Poem

There comes not through the o'erarching cloud of green
A harsh, an envious sound to jar the ear:
But vaguely swells a hum, now far, now near,
Where the wild honey-bee beyond the screen
Of beech-leaves haunts thefield of flowering bean.
Far, far away the low voice of the weir
Dies into silence. Hush'd now is the clear
Sweet song down-circling from the lark unseen.

Beyond me, where I lie, the shrew-mice run
A-patter where of late the streamlet's tones
Made music: on a branch a drowsy bird
Sways by the webs that midst dry pools are spun —
Yet lives the streamlet still, for o'er flat stones
The slow lapse of the gradual wave is heard.