Classic Poem

God bless the little fellows—here again!
Wee minnesingers, tuning one by one
For the full concert soon to be begun.
I hear it—hear it!—'tis the selfsame strain,
The old familiar serenade! Let wane
The sun now when some ardent day is done,
And through the grass the opening notes will run.
Dear little fellow-minstrels, I would fain
Go troubadouring with you through the meads,
Sing to the moon poised in night's starry middle,
Follow wherever vagrant fancy leads,
And think no more of life's confusing riddle,
Content to die at last with autumn' weeds;
But pshaw! I'd never learn to play your fiddle.