Classic Poem

Thus sang the poet-lover, mid the scenes
Where happiness once brooded like a dove.
The mournful tale is ended with a sigh,
And she who listened weeps; and where they stand
The sad moon ponders, like the ghost of Eve
All night a-gazing on an Eden lost.
The conjuring fancy fills the place with shapes,
Holding their doubtful tryste; the o'ershadowed eye
Peoples the dusk with phantoms; and the ear,
By keen imagination finely tuned,
Like a light cord to fullest tension drawn
Vibrates to each accordant sigh of air,
And hears a world of sounds, where ruder sense
Would only note the silence. Did you hear?
Was it a rustle in the budding boughs,
Or lone bird darting from his wakeful branch?
Is but the flower, above decaying hopes,
Blooming to hide a ruin. But a sight,
Saddest of all—sadder than sudden death—
It is to see a young heart touched with frost,
And all its freshness scattered to the wind;—
A heart which had been full of joy, all hope,
All love, all trust, break from its hold of all
And, like an easy, noiseless bank of sand,
Fall, crumbling by continuous degrees,
Into the gulfy river of despair.