Classic Poem

An alley of dark cypresses
Hides an enrondured pool of light;
And there the young musicians come
With instruments for her delight.
Silk-clad, their brown cropped locks are bowed
Over dim lutes that sigh aloud;
Or else with heads thrown back they tease
Reverberate echoes from the drum.

The stiff folds of her rich brocade
Crush with faint sound the first dead leaves,
As her page lets slips the lustrous train.
Her eyes are sad, and her bosom heaves;
For the poet walking with her lays bare
That Love which moves the starrier air,
The heavenly love, and its earthly shade —
On earth the lovelier of the twain.