Classic Poem

The time is come to speak, I think:
For on the square I met
My beauteous widow, fresh and pink,
Her black gown touched at every brink
With tender violet;

And aTher throat the white crêpe lisse
Spoke, in a fluffy bow,
Of woe that should perhaps ne'er cease —
(Peace to thy shade, Golightly, peace!)
Yet mitigated woe.

In her soft eye, that used to scan
The ground, nor seem to see,
The hazel legend sweetly ran,
" I could not wholly hate a man
For quite adoring me. "

And when she drew her 'kerchief fine,
A hint of heliotrope
Its snow edged with an inky line
Exhaled, — from which scent you divine
Through old regrets new hope.

And then her step, so soft and slow,
She scarcely seemed to lift
From off the sward her widowed toe, —
One year, one little year ago! —
So soft yet, yet so swift;

Then, too, her blush, her side glance coy,
Tell me in easy Greek
(I wonder could her little boy
Prove source of serious annoy?)
The time has come to speak.