Classic Poem

(“Avant que mes chansons.”)

Ere yet my youthful songs beloved,
Tender and true, keen pangs had proved
Of the base world's ingratitude,
Far from the bitter blasts of reason,
How bloomed they in how bright a season
With sweetest scents and rays endued!

From singing branches of life's tree,
With a weird ghostly melody,
Now, ere wild winter's come, they're riven.
East, South, North, West, they're whirled and scattered,
Each petal pure with mud bespattered,
By wind or water drown'd or driven.

Whilst I, whose brow, methought, should be
With leaf and bloom perpetually
Adorn'd, watch their wild dance i' the air;
Till lo, I'm turned from looking after,
Hearing the dull world's mocking laughter
Around the sighing branches bare!