Classic Poem

Knowing that thou art doomed, thou lov'st me more,
Oh passionate, sweet victim, reed-like, frail;
Upon thy cheeks, now hectic, now so pale,
Wanes the fair, delicate grace that I adore.

A few sad months are all thy future store,
And even despairing prayers can not avail
Against Death's icy fingers that assail
God will not pity now when I implore.

Darling, let love upon thy swooning face,
Flowerwise, unto the last serenely bloom;
With dying kisses waft thy soul to me,
Cling to me closely, and each warm embrace
Recall, when in thy coffin's ghastly gloom
The amorous worms cling madly unto thee!