Classic Poem

The days are long; ah me, my crescent moon,
Though Fortune set thee sometimes in my sky,
'Tis but a little while,—the morning's eye
Opens too soon.

Ah, wouldst thou by the roses of the spring
But time thy absence; could the falling flowers
Restore thee,—gladly would I bide the hours
Of blossoming.

But love, I think thou reckonest the days
By the soft roses of thy cheeks, that bloom
Without an autumn; then it is my doom
To wait always.