Classic Poem

A WILD-ROSE twined o'er the old oak-tree:
Sweet Lucy sat by me upon the grass:
She plucked a flower, and gave it me —
I was a lad, and she was a lass.

A thorn on the flower pricked her hand:
I bowed my head like a priest at mass,
And healed the hurt with a potion bland —
I was a lad, and she was a lass.

I feared her frown, but she smiled instead,
And the light, like the sparkle of wine and glass,
Which shone in her eyes, quite turned my head —
I was a lad, and she was a lass.

I kissed the rose, and I kissed her lips.
The crickets were chirping among the grass.
We were happy through to our finger-tips —
I was a lad, and she was a lass.

The rose is faded — I keep it yet —
The gray years come, and the gay years pass,
With joy, with sorrow, but no regret,
For those who once were a lad and a lass.

And the rose still twines o'er the old oak-tree,
And often we sit there upon the grass;
And the past is lost in to-day for me,
And I am a lad, and she is a lass.