Classic Poem

Not by the city bells that chime the hours
I'll tell this day,
But by the bloom and fall of things in flowers
And the slow way
Of cloud shadows, and swathing sunshine wrapping
The gorse-gilt plain;
And little lifted leaves, and water lapping,
And maybe rain.

A shaken bough, a circle on the water,
A rose a-blush,
A yellow iris crowned like a king's daughter,
A piping thrush.
Swift fiery dragon-flies, and brown bees humming,
And tiny things
Making strange music, and the twilight coming
On measureless wings.