Classic Poem

You would have loved her, had you seen:
The beauty of her life was prayer —
The blue sky never wet with showers
A bed of yellow primrose flowers
As pretty as the lovely sheen
Of her loose hair.

O'er the low casement her soft hands
Twined tenderly the creeping vines;
Out in the woodland's shady glooms
Loved she to gather summer blooms,
And where from yonder valley lands
The river shines.

The rain was falling when she died,
The sky was dismal with its gloom,
And autumn's melancholy blight
Shook down the yellow leaves that night,
And mournfully the low winds sighed
About her tomb.

At midnight near the gray old towers
That rise in lordly pride so high,
Was heard the dismal raven's croak,
From the red shadows of the oak,
And with her pale arms full of flowers,
The dead went by.

An old man now, with thin white hair,
Oft counts his beads beneath that tree;
Sometimes when glows the noontide bright,
And sometimes in the lonesome night,
He breathes the dead girl's name in prayer
On bended knee.

A shepherd boy — so runs the tale —
Once, as he pent his harmless flocks,
Crossed the sweet maid, her lap all full
Of lilies pied, and cowslips dull,
Weaving up fillets, red and pale,
For her long locks.

Sweetly the eve-star lit the towers,
When, homeward riding from the chase,
Down from his coal-black steed there leapt
A courtier gay, whose dark plumes swept
A cloud of ringlets bound with flowers,
And love-lit face.

Summer is gone — the casement low,
With dead vines darkened — winds are loud;
Alda, no mone the gay old towers
Shut from thee heaven's sweet border flowers!
Comb back the locks of golden glow,
And bring the shroud.