Classic Poem

The last nymph, ere the Old World's close,
Fleeing, lest her sweet friends forget,
Bequeathed her blushes to the rose,
Her eyes unto the violet.

It must have been a lovely girl,
So red of cheek, so blue of eye—
Look, how these rose-leaves flaming curl—
What tints within the violet lie!

No more beneath the mossy trees
Her laughter shakes the bramble-tips;
But, ah, for such bequests as these
Are smiles upon a million lips!

And was she sad to die away,
Child of the faded Golden Age,
And did her eyes have tears the day
The flowers had their heritage?

Sometimes I see a pallor on
The rose that should be red and fair;
And once I walked the woods at dawn
And found the violets weeping there.

Oh, nothing beautiful is had
Of earth, however rich and strange,
But at its source is something sad
That speaks of agonies of change.

And you and I, of such rare blue,
And how the summer roses burn,
Until our parting scarcely knew,
Nor ever should have paused to learn.