Classic Poem

I send thee flowers—fresh flowers, to breathe
An incense on thy lovely shrine;
Oh, take them while they bloom, and wreathe
A chaplet for that brow of thine!
Better than gems from India mine,
They well become thy raven hair;
For, like those gems thy bright eyes shine,
And other rays thou need'st not wear.

If I could lure some minstrel-bird
From his dear summer home away,
My pen should trace no idle word,
Nor frame this unregarded lay;
For more than I can dare to say
That captive bird should sweetly sing;
And thou, perchance, would'st bid him stay,
And fold with thee his weary wing!