Classic Poem

The tree to which my darling
Would point in childish wonder,
The green pomegranate yonder
With crimson blossoms bright,

Lone in the silent garden
The young green mantled o'er it,
E'en now doth June restore it
In summer warmth and light.

Thou of my stem the blossom,
This withered stem so stricken,
Thou, who my days didst quicken,
My one, my last delight,

In the cold earth thou liest,
In the black earth for ever;
Sunshine and love can never
For thee break winter's night.