Classic Poem

Who was the beautiful woman whose lover
 Once left her this dead old flower, did you say?
Well, perhaps that is she in the picture over
 The vase with the flowers which you gather'd to-day.

The one with the deep strange dress, that is flowing
 All purple and pearls through each stiffen'd fold,
And the band on her forehead, whose dusk-red glowing
 Shoots into great sharp thorns of gold.

Never mind the light. You will see, to-morrow,
 That, with eyes raised darkly and lips close-prest,
She is giving away her awful sorrow
 To the snake she keeps at her breast!

“And who was her lover?” Why, that may be he, there,
 In the other picture glimmering nigh—
Yes, the handsome and wretched man you see there,
 Falling against his sword to die.

Will he die for her , do you say? (Ah, will he?)
 No doubt he has often told her so!
“Did it bloom far away, this crumbling lily?”
 Very far——and so long ago.

And who gave it to me?
——So the wither'd story
 I've dream'd by the twilight all this while,
For some vanish'd blossom's day of glory,
 Is your truth, my Lily of the Nile.

For the beautiful woman is slowly dying
 Of a snake as plain as this to my sight;
And her lover who gave her this flower is lying
 On the edge of a sword to-night.