Classic Poem

She sate by the river springs,
And bound her coal-black hair;
And she sang, as the cuckoo sings,
Alone, — in the Evening air,
With a patient smile, and a look of care,
And a cheek that was dusk, not fair;
She sate, but her thoughts had wings,
That carried her sweet despair
Away to the azure plains,
Where truth and the angels are:
She sang, — but she sang in vain!
Ah! why doth she sing again?

She mourns, like the sweet wind grieving in
The pines, on an autumn night;
She will fade, like the fading evening,
When Hesper is blooming bright:
And her song? — it must take its flight!
So pretty a song
Must die ere long,
Like a too, too sharp delight!

She was — like the rose in summer;
She is — like the lily frail;
Yet, they 'll welcome the sweet new comer,
Below, in the regions pale!
And the ghost will forget his pain,
AShe roams thro' the dusk alone:
And We? — We will mourn in vain,
O'er the Shadow of beauty flown!