Classic Poem

FRANÇOIS COPP├ëE .

O heart of exile, dream thou of the day
When the fair future all thy nature stirred,
And in thy hand her white hand nestling lay,
Like a tired bird!

Ah, then, how quickly all thy soul within
Grew warm and trembled in that tender hour,
How silently thou drank'st the moments in,
Like a faint flower.

Again dark clouds of sorrow fill thy sky,
For she, afar, can give no look or word —
Thy tender thoughts away all drooping fly,
Like a tired bird.

Already o'er thy soul comes winged distrust,
And grief is born anew in love's late bower,
Thou knowest love will fall and fade in dust,
Like a faint flower.