Classic Poem

Tears that never quite touched earth,
Passion-buds that lie
Stillborn of a fruitless birth,—
Stars from a dead sky.

Not with purple pulses borne
Down wild tides of play;
Ages since, an elfin horn
Witched their youth away.

Blanched with their own beauty; pale,
Much as maids might be,
Looking long for one soft sail
Swallowed by the sea.

Much as they who, stooped with years,
Listen all alone,
Hearing faint, through far-off ears,
Voices they have known.

Children of too gentle birth,
Here these flowers lie;
Love that never quite touched earth,—
They . . . and thou and I.