Classic Poem

‘What do you so regret, my lady,
Sitting beside me here?
Are there not days as clear
As this to come—ev'n shaped less shady?’
‘O no,’ said she. ‘Come what delight
To you, by voice or pen,
To me will fall such day, such night,
Not, not again!’

The lamps above and round were fair,
The tables were aglee,
As if 'twould ever be
That we should smile and sit on there.
But yet she said, as though she must,
‘Yes: it will soon be gone,
And all its dearness leave but dust
To muse upon.’