Classic Poem

She is not happy as the Poets say,
And passing thro' her garden paradise
She scatters the divine wet flower that dies
For so much gathered in the luscious day.
Behind, the rioting Satyr has his play,
A wind lays near the Graces' draperies,
And the sweet Earth with inattentive eyes
Mildly remembers toward the growing day.
Her lips would sing but, fearing hazard, press
The music inward where her breath is caught.
She dances to an under-melting stream.
But dubious of this utter happiness
She dulls her simple ecstasy with thought,
And lacking Summer doubts herself a Dream.