Classic Poem

My head on moss reclining,
Hard by a murm'ring stream,
My sleep, more soft than rhyming,
Dissolved into a dream.
The willows that surrounded
Methought began to talk;
And men by love confounded
Like Hamlet's ghost did stalk.

‘Friends,’ say the mournful willows,
‘Should you our garlands wear,
And thus forsake your pillows,
Nor shun the fatal snare,
You soon would be as we are,
Fast-rooted on the shore;
For we were men as you are,
But shall be so no more.’

Then ev'ry silent lover
His drooping head did rear,
Say'ng, ‘What we sought to smother,
To you we will declare;
We each have been a lover,
And wore love's fatal chain;
With awe each strove to move her,
Who slew him with disdain.’

‘But since such low submission
Our fair ones could not move,
To hide our sad condition
From mortals we have strove.’
Then little Cupid, laughing,
Dropped from an azure cloud,
And while his wings were chaffing,
He settled in the crowd.

And told them that his mother
Such lovers would despise:
‘Then seek not love to smother,
But seize each man his prize;
And then caress and press her,
Nor give her room to fly,
But in soft murmurs tell her,
'Twere happy so to die.

‘And by the lips’ injection
Drive love into her brain,
And then for his protection,
Go purchase Hymen's chain.’
I started from my pillow
Of moss most soft and green,
And nothing but the willow
Remained there to be seen.