Classic Poem

Sweet child, that wast my bird by day,
My bird that never failed in song;
That on my bosom wast a bee,
And layst there all night long:

No more I'll hear thy voice at noon,
For Death has pierced thee with a thorn
No more thou'lt sleep upon my breast,
And trample it at morn.

Then break, oh break, poor empty cage,
The bird is dead, thy use is done;
And die, poor plant, for your sweet bee
Is gone, forever gone.