Classic Poem

Midges and moths — ay, all you restless things
The dance and tourney in the fields of air:
You, Psyche's postman, trim and debonair,
With eye-like freckles on your bronzed wings;
You, candle-elves, whose strange emblazonings
With sign of death our ancient gossips scare,
Or who, when sleeps the humming-bird, repair
With stealthy beaks to drain the honey-springs, —

Your secret's out! I know you for the souls
Of all light loves that ever caused heartache,
Still dancing suit as some new beauty toles!
Nor can you e'er your flitting ways forsake
Till the just winds strip off your painted stoles,
And sere leaves follow in your downward wake.