Classic Poem

Sleep, minstrel, sleep; the winter wind's awake,
And yellow April's buried deep and cold.
The wood is black, and songful things forsake
The haunted forest when the year is old.
Above the drifted snow, the aspens quake,
The scourging clouds the shrunken moon enfold.
Denying all that nights of summer spake
And swearing false the summer's globe of gold.

Sleep, minstrel, sleep; in such a bitter night
Thine azure song would seek the stars in vain;
Thy rose and roundelay the winter's spite
Would scarcely spare—O never wake again!
These leaden skies do not thy masques invite,
Thy sunny breath would warm not their disdain;
How shouldst thou sing to boughs with winter dight,
Or gather marigolds in winter rain?

Sleep, minstrel, sleep; we do not grow more kind;
Your cloak was thin, your wound was wet and deep;
More bitter breath there was than winter wind,
And hotter tears than now thy lovers weep.
Upon the world-old breast of comfort find
How gentle Darkness thee will gently keep.
Thou wert the summer's, and thy joy declined
When winter winds awoke. Sleep, minstrel, sleep.