Classic Poem

Born of the air,
Say, whither, whither, dost thou glide,
With breath of balm, on azure tide,
Viewless, yet fair?

O'er hill and dale
'Tis thine to stray, and share the smile
Of stars and flowers, and without guile
Thyself regale.

At summer eve,
On gentle wing that fans my brow,
Why stoop, or, blandly whispering now,
Ask why I grieve,—

Grieve for the blest,
The dearly-loved one, now no more,
To whom an angel oped the door
In realms of rest?

Yet, when I hear
The loving whisper of thy lute,
I think it hers whose lip is mute,
And hope and fear;

And, though in vain,
Still wait to hear one whisper more,
And still at Beauty's shrine adore,
Nor would refrain.

Her spirit, bright
And seraph-like, looks down from heaven;
While I look up with soul unshriven,
And hail the light.