Classic Poem

Rose, that flushing hues didst borrow
From my lute,
Pink for joy and pale for sorrow,—
Now 'tis mute,
Droop thine amber lids, and sleep
In a tide of perfume deep,
Till the sap of music creep
To thy root.

Dream; then die the death of roses
With no pain,
Till the yellowing wreck uncloses
In the rain,
And the ghost of music springs
On its dim gray moth-like wings
To my lute's neglected strings