Classic Poem

Bosom white as Alpine snow,
And, like Alpine snow, as cold,
O'er which the careless tresses flow—
Tresses spun of palest gold:
Like the threaded beams of light,
That rest on peaky summits white.

Snowy heights, for ever cold,
Tho the sun appears so nigh,
Far below which men behold
Panting beneath the fervid sky!
So those tresses, maid divine!
Kindle every heart, but thine.

O'er thy forehead, o'er thy cheek
While those morn-like tresses spread,
Ah! what crimson blushes break!
And is no warmth beneath that red?
Oh! icy maid of glowing mien!
Amid the pangs you cause serene.

But, if thus, by Nature's law,
Suns by distance only burn,
Hence, away with timid awe:
Nature's lesson let me learn.
Let me to those heights aspire—
Bask in the ray, nor feel the fire!