Classic Poem

A tree thou art, of foliage fair;—
A palm of graceful mould!
No other clime a growth so rare
As this did ever hold.

A flower thou art, with downcast look:
Nay, thou'rt a bud half-blown!
Sweet dost thou make thy wayside nook!
I'd cull thee for my own.

A maid art thou in whom is all
Rare beauty of flower or tree.
Thine eyes' deep heaven no shadows pall:
Thy cheeks blush roses be.

My love art thou! on earth, I ween,
Though sought I everywhere,
No second were found to my heart's queen,
No one so passing fair.