Classic Poem

So glad a life was never, love,
— As that which childhood leads,
Before it learns to sever, love,
— The roses from the weeds;
When to be very duteous, love,
— Is all it has to do;
And every flower is beauteous, love,
— And every folly true.

And you can still remember, love,
— The buds that decked our play,
Though Destiny's December, love,
— Has whirled those buds away:
And you can smile through tears, love,
— And feel a joy in pain,
To think upon those years, love,
— You may not see again.

When we mimicked the Friar's howls, love,
— Cared nothing for his creeds,
Made bonnets of his cowls, love,
— And bracelets of his beads;
And gray-beards looked not awful, love,
— And grandames made no din,
And vows were not unlawful, love,
— And kisses were no sin.

And do you never dream, love,
— Of that enchanted well,
Where under the moon-beam, love,
— The Fairies wove their spell?
How oft we saw them greeting, love,
— Beneath the blasted tree,
And heard their pale feet beating, love,
— To their own minstrelsy!

And do you never think, love,
— Of the shallop, and the wave,
And the willow on the brink, love,
— Over the poacher's grave?
Where always in the dark, love,
— We heard a heavy sigh,
And the dogs were wont to bark, love,
— Whenever they went by?

Then gaily shone the heaven, love,
— On life's untroubled sea,
And Vidal's heart was given, love,
— In happiness to thee;
The sea is all benighted, love,
— The heaven has ceased to shine;
The heart is seared and blighted, love,
— But still the heart is thine!