Classic Poem

“S WEET Swan of Avon what a sight it were”
 To see thee so majestically glide,
(When nothing may th' o'ershadowing branches stir,)
 Over the lucid lymph of that beloved Tide,
Making thee Pipes, there, of the lowliest reeds
And flower-bells from the very wildest weeds,
Leisurely cropping!—it were sweeter still
To list thee whiles with melancholy skill
(Wearing a Willow in thy beaked Bill,)
Thou work'st the weeping Passions to thy will!