Classic Poem

Whate'er in songs I oftentimes indite
Of kisses at endearing eventide,
Of love by warm embraces testified,
Alas! is all a dream, a poet's flight.
And now , thou questionest my minstrel-right,
And sternly wouldst my boastful language chide;
“If thus he dare to speak of bliss untried,
Let him be silent, feeling real delight!”
Belov'd one, moderate thy serious tone,
Smile at such dreams as poet's fancy sees
Of shadowy shapes, and sports he ne'er hath known.
In shadows cool the minstrel oft doth lie,
The whilst his harp hangs 'neath the swaying trees
And through the strings the whispering breezes sigh.