Classic Poem

Wearied of solitary hills,
On which the wannish sunlight spills,
And which the glooms of high clouds cross,
Clouds wandering ever at a loss
About th' immeasurable sky,
I will descend. And by-and-by
Glimpse beneath the shouldered down
A hamlet reeking golden-brown;
Creep through a willow copse to view
Under an orchard avenue,
A lithe girl in a sun-splashed smock
Calling her perchid pigeon flock,
And as they coo and flutter over
Laughing and carolling of her lover.

Girl. " Little pigeon, grave and fleet" —
All the golden grain you'd eat,
Greedy! let the little bird
Pick some. Sweet, your cooing's heard;
You shall have this. There! Be bolder:
Light you now upon my shoulder....
Cooroo? Cooroo in my ear?
Darling, yes, I hear, I hear:
From this hand, then, you shall pluck it.
Foolish love! your wings have struck it,
Spilt the grain the grass among.
— Flutter! Flutter! — where's my song?
" Little pigeon, grave and fleet" —
Too late now your wings you beat
By my face: look in the ground;
There, they say, all gold is found.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet,
Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings,
Think you that you can discover
On what great green down my lover
Lies by his sunny sheep and sings?

If you can, O go and greet
Him from me; say: She is waiting....
Not for him, O no! but, sweet,
Say June's nigh and doves, remating,
Fill the dancing noontide heat
With melodious debating.

Say the swift swoops from the beam;
Soon the cuckoo must cease calling;
Kingcups flare beside the stream,
That not glides now but runs brawling;
That wet roses are asteam
In the sun and will be falling.

Say the chestnut sheds his bloom;
Honey from straw hivings oozes;
There's a nightjar in the coombe;
Venus nightly burns, and chooses
Most to blaze above my room;
That the laggard 'tis that loses.

Say the nights are warm and free,
And the great stars swarm above him;
But soon starless night must be.
Yet if all these do not move him,
Tell, O tell — but not too plainly! —
That I long for him and love him.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet,
Fly you swiftly, tell him this;
And I'll give you grain so golden
Midas' self has ne'er beholden
Aught so gold, and — yes! — a kiss.

Smiling at her eager voice,
I will grant the girl her choice,
Whispering to the pigeon: " Lo!
Yon's the way for you to go:
Over the willows, past the copse,
To where a sylph-like lime-tree tops
A lonely knoll; then on and on
Toward where yesternight there shone
A silver comet, scarce descried,
Against the fainting eventide. "