Classic Poem

Ask not why sorrow shades my brow,
—Nor why my sprightly looks decay:
Alas! what need I beauty now,
—Since he that loved it died to-day?

Can ye have ears, and yet not know
—Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo 's slain?
Can ye have eyes, and they not flow,
—Or hearts, that do not share my pain?

He 's gone! he 's gone! and I will go;
—For in my breast such wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so
—That the whole world appears my grave.

But I 'll go to him, though he lie
—Wrapped in the cold, cold arms of death:
And under yon sad cypress tree
—I 'll mourn, I 'll mourn away my breath.

Ask not why sorrow shades my brow,
—Nor why my sprightly looks decay:
Alas! what need I beauty now,
—Since he that loved it died to-day?

Can ye have ears, and yet not know
—Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo 's slain?
Can ye have eyes, and they not flow,
—Or hearts, that do not share my pain?

He 's gone! he 's gone! and I will go;
—For in my breast such wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so
—That the whole world appears my grave.

But I 'll go to him, though he lie
—Wrapped in the cold, cold arms of death:
And under yon sad cypress tree
—I 'll mourn, I 'll mourn away my breath.