Classic Poem

Hast thou come again, pale mallow,
Hast thou put thy blossoms on?
Yea! a mournful sight hath met me,
All the spring at once is gone.
Thou art still the rose of Autumn,
Born when lower wheels the sun;
Thou art staring, thou art scentless,
And thy blossoms are as none.

I would gladly greet thee, mallow,
Wert thou not so rosy red,
Hadst thou not my loved one's blushes,
Hers, who blossomed — and is dead.
Cease to feign that Spring continues,
For thou need'st not glow so bright,
Thou canst blend a dusky sadness
With a radiance soft and white.