Classic Poem

Unpraised but of my simple rhymes
She pined from life, and died,
The softest of all April times
That storm and shine divide.

The swallow twittered within reach
Impatient of the rain,
And the red blossoms of the peach
Blew down against the pane.

When, feeling that life's wasting sands
Were wearing into hours,
She took her long locks in her hands
And gathered out the flowers.

The day was nearly at the close,
And on the eave in sight,
The doves were gathered in white rows
With bosoms to the light;

When first my sorrow flowed to rhymes
For gentle Adelied —
The light of thrice five April-times
Had kissed her when she died.