Classic Poem

Here sleep the Lovers who in life were parted,
Clasped in each other's arms, while round their tomb
(Blest be the hands that set them!) wild flowers bloom,
And shed their perfume o'er the broken-hearted.
Hither the maids of France repair, what time
The spring revives the myrtle and the rose,
What time the lark sings blithely over those
That rest below. Long hither may they climb!
Immortal is the story of their fate
That sleep within; the angry winds may blow,
The sculptur'd tomb crumble beneath the slow
But certain tooth of Time insatiate!
Yet amid these should all around decay,
Still would they live in one undying lay!