Classic Poem

Soft from the linden's bough,
Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,
Eve's dove laments her now:
" Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon? "

That yearning in his voice
Told not to Paradise a sorrow's tale:
As other birds rejoice
He sang, a brother to the nightingale.

By twilight on her breast
He saw the flower sleep, the star awake;
And calling her from rest,
Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.

And then the Tempter's breath,
The sword of exile and the mortal chain —
The heritage of death
That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain. ...

In Eden desolate
The seraph heard his lonely music swoon,
As now, reiterate;
" Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon? "