Classic Poem

When two complaining spirits mingle,
Saintly and calm their woes become:
Alas the grief that bideth single,
Whose heart is drear, whose lips are dumb!

My drooping lily, when the tears
Of morning bow thy tender head,
Oh scatter them, and have no fears:
They kill sometimes if cherished.

Dear Girl, the precious gift you gave
Was of yourself entire and free.
Why front alone Life's gloomy wave,
Why fling the brilliant foam to me?

Am I the lover of thy mirth,
A trifling thing of sunny days, —
A soul forbid for want of worth,
To tread with thee th' unpleasant ways?

No — trust me, love; if I delight
To mark thy brighter hour of pleasure,
To deep-eyed Passion's watchful sight
Thy sadness is a costlier treasure.