Classic Poem

Why, gentle lady, why complain
At Scandal's ever flying breath?
'Gainst Virtue's cheek it blows in vain,
And thereon breathes itself to death.

The flower beneath the passing rain,
Untouched of canker or of blight,
Bows patiently, to rise again
With sweeter breath and fresher light.

But if the worm be hid beneath,
Or haply if the hot simoom,
Like some unlawful lover's breath.
Hath wooed that blossom to its doom, —

Then, wo is me, how poor and frail
Is Beauty in her fairest form!
Her brightness cannot stay the gale,
Her perfume cannot charm the storm.

But when the searching wind comes by,
And shakes each blossom by the stalk
The tainted leaves asunder fly,
To wither down the garden walk; —

And ere one heated noon has sped,
They crisp and curl and pass from sight;
Or crumble 'neath some careless tread
As if they never had been bright.