Classic Poem

I am for aye, for ever, ever sighing
My voice is full of woe, as my breast is of pain;
Like a broken-hearted lover continually dying,
I can only raise my voice to die over again!

Rude breathes the blast? My bosom 'gins a-thrilling,
All lonely as I hang in these lyrical bowers,
And I wail as if the winds the sweet infant-buds were killing,
As if the cruel tempest did murder the flowers!

Sweet, low and soft is the light Zephyr blowing?
Ah! not the less I murmur, not the less I sigh;
Sure the melancholy rushes by the wild waters growing
Are not half so full of sadness, of sorrow as I?

But should a maid with the willow sit nigh me,
And whisper a sad love-song once over my strings,
So deeply, doubly mournful it becomes in passing by me,
That she thinks, silly maid, 'tis her death-song she sings!