Classic Poem

“When I, a year ago, came back to thee,
No kiss of welcome on my lips was laid,”
I growled—the rosy lips of my sweet maid,
With sweetest kiss, for growl requited me;
Then with sweet smile a myrtle slip plucked she,
From off the bush that at the window stood:
“Take that,” she said, “plant it in soil that's good,
Put over it a glass; and then you'll see.”
It's all long past, the slip in pot is dead;
Nor her sweet self for years have I beheld,
But still that kiss is burning in my head;
And from afar it made me lately stray,
Where my love dwells. All night my post I held,
Before her door—then went with morn away.