Classic Poem

Ah pictured leaves with edges torn
Which on this old piano lie,
Whose crimson cloth is threadbare worn,
I touch you with a mournful sigh.

Old songs are ringing in my brain.
I vaguely hum forgotten tunes.
I stand and turn the leaves again
Through the long summer afternoons.

Fond memory of those golden days
Awakes, and once again I see
The girls who sang these tender lays
And played these plaintive airs for me.

One wears the rose I gave to her—
The rose she took with witching jest—
And while she sings I feel as 'twere
My heart upon her heavenly breast.

I feel the southern zephyr sweet
Blow through the latticed colonnade,
And hear the steps of lovers' feet
Retreating through the scented shade.

Enchanting creature! Left alone,
My wild, first passion I declare.
The music dies to monotone
Along the keys. O fresh and fair

The girlish face that lifts to mine
With parted lips and flower-like eyes
And lets me drink of love divine
Till all my soul in rapture dies.

Then life was full—full to the brim—
A thrilling ecstacy—a tune
Charming the angels to the rim
Of heaven at sunset; and the moon

Was my own love—all night to lie
And gaze upon her splendid grace
And dream how grand for love to die,
Some Roland, in grim danger's face.

But where the girls that used to play
And sing the songs we loved so well?
Though we may journey many a way,
We meet them not—no one can tell.

Do they yet twine the silken curls
That fell o'er blushing shoulders bare
And do they, as when they were girls,
Put summer roses in their hair?

Do they sometimes recall the past
With songs they sung in happier days,
And sometimes think of eyes that cast
Into their own such tender rays?

They vanished with the early dreams
That made romance of everything.
We parted, like the sparkling streams
That from the forest laughing spring.

And never, never meet again,
And nevermore flow clear and free,
And leave at last the tranquil plain
To mingle with the unpeaceful sea.