Classic Poem

'T IS a love-thought hidden
In a maiden's breast,
Which, though sweetly chidden,
Will not let her rest.
She, in golden vision
Of her love, hath wreath'd
Feelings more Elysian
Than e'er tongue hath breath'd.

Every sorrow losing
In the passion wrought,
There she sitteth musing
O'er her one sweet thought.
Still her fate unseeing,
Love doth all impart;
Beauty fills her being,
Melody her heart.


Thus one name had bound her
In her maiden day;
Flowers bloom'd bright around her—
Where, alas! are they?
Years but feelings sever—
Hopes but wait in vain;
And, oh! Love can never
Bring back youth again.