Classic Poem

The roses and stars were in blossom:
She leant by the lattice alone,
And a pet dove, white as a lily,
Flew out of the night with a moan,
And nestled down close in her bosom,
To hide from the wound in its own.

Tears rain'd on the snow of its plumage,
Tears rain'd on the golden moonshine;
" Ah, beautiful, tremulous darling, "
She murmured, " my life is like thine —
Only I have no bosom to fly to,
My bird, as you fly into mine. "

The south-moon dropp'd under the shadow,
Yet she stay'd to remember and weep,
Till — what was the wonderful Presence,
So quiet and holy and deep,
That stole thro' the dreams of the roses,
Till they shook out their sweetness in sleep?

Ah, an Angel that once was a mortal
Flew out of the glories unknown,
And, like the white dove from the darkness
That came to her love with its moan,
She nestled down close in his bosom,
And hid from the wound in her own.