Classic Poem

The schooners with their pale green lights
Glance up and down the river;
I clasp my hand in Memory's own
And hush my heart's sad quiver.

Glad twilight birds chirp overhead,
And soft their gray wings flutter;
We pluck rare purple grapes, sweet friend,
And loving words we utter.

Wan statues stare in gardens fair,
Proud in their cold beseeching;
I stretch my hands to grasp a prize,
Too far off for the reaching.

The thrush sits lonely on a spray
Hard by a pure white flower;
I hear a strain, oh deadly sweet,
Float, swan-like, through the bower.

The breeze has sped on noiseless wing,
The river's restless growing,
The singer greets us on this bank,
With music round him flowing.

The trees with red leaves garlanded,
The river's banks are shading;
I call the singer, but alas!
He, phantom-like, is fading.

One silver star has crowned the eve,
Closed are the drowsy flowers;
I clasp my hand in Memory's own,
And leave these fatal bowers.