Classic Poem

Tho' I be young—ah well-a-day!
I cannot love these opening flowers;
For they have each a kindly spray
To shelter them from suns and showers;
But I may pine, oppressed with grief,
Robbed of my dear protecting leaf.

Since thou art gone, my mother sweet,
I weep to see the fledgling doves
Close nestling in a happy seat,
Each beside the breast it loves;
While I, uncared for, sink to rest,
Far, far from my fond mother's breast.

Sweet mother! in thy blessed sight
I too might blossom full and free;
Heaven then would beam with softer light;
But, could I rest upon thy knee
My drooping head, what need I care
How sickly pale and wan I were?

My face I view in pools and brooks,
When garish suns full brightly shine;
Ah! me! think I, those blooming looks,
And that smooth brow can ne'er be mine!
Sad heart! I charge thee to express
More truly all thy deep distress.

Deceitful roses leave my cheek,
Soft lilies join those happy flowers,
Which nothing stirs but zephyr meek,
Which nought oppresses but sweet showers;
While she lies dead I grieve to be
More like those living flowers than she.

O, what to me are landscapes green,
With groves and vineyards sprinkled o'er,
And gardens where gay plants are seen
To form a daily changing floor?
I dream of waters and of waves,
The tide which thy sea-dwelling laves.

Dearly I love the hours of night,
When bashful stars have leave to shine;
For all my visions rise in light,
While sun-lit spectacles decline;
And with those starts they fade away,
Or look as glow-worms look by day.