Classic Poem

Loose to the wind her golden tresses streamed,
Forming bright waves with amorous zephyr's sights;
And though averted now, her charming eyes
Then with warm love and melting pity beamed.
Was I deceived? Ah surely, nymph divine,
That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love!
What wonder then those lovely tints should move,
Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine?
Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,
Were of a goddess, not a mortal maid;
Yet though thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade,
My heart, my tender heart could not escape,
Nor cure for me in time or change be found:
The shaft exctracted does not cure the wound.