Classic Poem

Thy voice is sweet, — is sad, — is clear,
And yet, methinks, 't should flow unseen,
Like hidden rivers that we hear
Singing amongst the forests green.

Delay, delay! till downy Eve
Into her twilight woods hath flown:
Too soon, musician, dost thou grieve;
Love bloometh best (like thought) — alone.

Cease, cease awhile! Thy holy strain
Should be amongst the silence born;
Thy heart may then unfold its pain,
Leaning upon its bridal thorn.

The insect noise, the human folly
Disturb thy grave thoughts with their
Then, cease awhile, bird Melancholy,
And when the fond Night hears — begin!