Classic Poem

Maiden at her window sitting,
With her long forgotten knitting
Lying idle when it fell upon the floor;
She is thinking, she is dreaming,
And her eyes with tears are streaming,
As she reads a pile of letters o'er and o'er.

Every sheet is closely written,
And each page illumed, love litten,
Breathing passion, hope and air of noble deeds;
Every line is manly, tender,
Wherefore then these sobs that rend her?
Why these bitter tears that blind her as she reads?

Why? Alas! the pen is rusted,
Lying useless, damp, encrusted,
Where it fell from pallid hands that write no more;
And the postman, passing daily,
Sees no more the maiden gayly,
Smiling, waiting for her letter at the door.

He is dead, that manly lover,
And the snows of winter cover
Pallid brow and pulseless breast as cold as they;
And she thinks, that stricken maiden —
With her youth thus sorrow-laden,
That her heart is dead and withered in its May.


She has learned to love another —
More than friend and more than brother —
(All those letters have turned yellow long ago);
There's a baby's laughter ringing,
As she clasps him, smiling, singing; —
She has learned the throbbing bliss that mothers know.

Yet she keeps those letters hidden,
And her heart still throbs unchidden
If she chance to touch the casket where they lie:
And she enters all undaunted,
To a chamber shadow-haunted,
Which no other, now or ever, cometh nigh.

She is happy now, and sweeter
Are the smiles that daily greet her,
Than was ever aught that haunted chamber keeps;
But let once her peace be broken,
And let bitter words be spoken —
She will read those yellow letters while she weeps.