Classic Poem

When the nightingale was singing,
And the rose was sweet and young,
Thou wert here to kiss and hold me,
And our hearts together clung.

Now that autumn strips the roses,
And the nightingale is flown,
Thou hast spread thy wings and followed,
And I linger here alone.

Dark and chill the nights are growing—
Ah, how long wilt thou delay?
Must I only dream for ever
Of a joy that's passed away?