Classic Poem

My friend lay stricken sore and at his side
Loudly my love and loyalty I cried,
Boasting of all that I would do and dare
For him whose welfare was my only care;
Yea, called High Heaven to witness if I lied,
And while I still protested my friend died.

Last night in dreams I watched two angels go
Through some fair garden that I seemed to know;
Burdened with blossoming bowed every tree,
And murmured one, “If these but blossoms be,
Judge when the moon of harvesting dips lows,
How wonderful the perfect fruit must show!”

To which the other smiling answered, “Nay,
This is the Garden of Fair Words men say;
A barren blossoming that may not give.
Of any fruit that Love may eat and live.”
And smiling both, they went upon their way.

But I awoke and hid my face from day.