Classic Poem

  A. She is not fresh in colour, like the rose;
Nor bright like morning. On her cheek there lies
Such paleness as becomes the maiden moon,
When clouds are threatening, and the angry storm
Mutters of death to come.
  B. She is not dead?
  A. Death could not kill her: he but kissed her cheek,
And made 't a little paler. So, she lives,
And fades,—and fades; and in the end (as day
Dies into evening,) she 'll some summer night
Shrink and be seen no more.