Classic Poem

They are mockery all — those skies, those skies —
Their untroubled depths of blue;
They are mockery all — these eyes, these eyes,
Which seem so warm and true.
Each quiet star in the one that lies,
Each meteor glance that at random dies
The other's lashes through;
They are mockery all, these flowers of spring,
Which her airs so softly woo;
And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay! it is mockery too;
The winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the looks deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre,
Which the flowers spring to strew.