Classic Poem

Beauty's bloom is on her cheek,
Heaven's sweet lustre in her eyes,
Yet her lips, that blush to speak,
Tell me the sad maiden dies!

This they tell me in mine ear,
Sideways, like an amorous dove,
And so soft, I scarce can hear,
That the maiden dies for love.

So much will the sweet-one say,
But no more!—perversely she—
Press her warmly as I may—
Will not say she dies for me!