Classic Poem

Talk not to me of love!
 The deer that dies
Knows more of love than I,
 Who seek the skies.
Strive not to bind my soul
 With chains of clay!
I scorn thy poor control;
 Away,—Away!

Now, wherefore dost thou weave
 Thy falsehoods strange?
Sad words may make me grieve,
 But never change.
A snake sleeps in thine eye;
 It stirs thine heart:
Why dost thou seem to sigh?
 Depart,—Depart!

Thy dreams, when Fortune flew,
 Did elsewhere range:
But Love is always true,
 And knows no change:
More firm in want, in strife,
 Ay, firm through crime,
He looketh down on life,
 The star of Time!