Classic Poem

Far in desart's depths, what Rose is flowering!
Wherefore droops that Rose today?
'Tis her " Sun " is hid, so clouds are lowering:
Love! thy Lover's far away!

For she's mine, my own, that Rose of Roses,
And my cheek her leaves do kiss,
All its Heaven-perfume her heart uncloses:
Can a mortal taste such bliss!

Roses few, and ever with pruning, weeding,
Wealth or Pomp or Power will yield;
But the fairest Rose of God's own Eden
Blooms in my poor rocky field!

O thou Heart's-Rose, droop not, cease thy pining!
Long forsaken canst thou be?
Bright tomorrow morn thy Sun is shining;
Over the hills, I haste to thee.

What for me were Earth, or what were Heaven?
And my own lov'd one not there?
Might a life, a death with her, be given,
Fate! I had no other prayer.