Classic Poem

Fair maid, yield not thy soul to gloom,
Nor that soft cheek to Sorrow's pow'r;
If he looks coldly on thy bloom
Must thou become a withered flow'r?

He cannot love:—yet thou art fair;
The fault is wholly his, not thine;
How great his folly all shall swear,
That see thy charms serenely shine.

When beaming beauty beams in vain,
And fails to melt the frozen heart,
The wound is sharp, yet heals amain;
Love leaves her still his better part.

But hers is no such passing pain,
Who loves when lovely youth is fled:
And feels that not e'en love to gain
Could raise her beauty from the dead:

Who hears the wind that courts the trees
Thus whisp'ring mock her hopeless grief;
‘When e'er did Love's soft summer breeze
Caress the sere and yellow leaf?’