Classic Poem

O wherefore should I write, when these my lines
May ne'er be read—if read, forgotten quite?
Wherefore the earth encumber with dead signs,
That to the generations give no light?
Hark! from yon sunny cloudlet come the notes
Of one that carols not for me or you,
But that the Spirit of creation floats
Into his breast, and gushes out anew.
Green earth! sweet air! blue sky! what worshipper
Can hold his voice on this all-beauteous day?
Young May is in the meadow playing her,
And all the world a-wooing is young May
She doth bewitch her lovers; whoso yields
Unto her spell, straight “babbles of green fields.”