Classic Poem

Oh, sweet to hear when Horace sings
Of olive or late-lingering rose,
Or lonely ilex tree that springs
Where the low-murmuring fountain flows, —
To hear in fancy through the Sabine vales
The immortal music of the nightingales!

But dearer to your heart and mine
The winds that whisper of the snow,
Of granite slopes of fir and pine
Where blood-root and arbutus grow;
Far clearer o'er the keen New England hills
Speak to our dreams the yearning whip-poor-wills.