Classic Poem

The night was scented like a peach,
The balustrade was cold to touch;
The words that linked us, each to each,
Expressed too little, — or too much!
The music sobbed beneath the trees
That soared into a purple sky;
On nights so delicate as these
We dare not dream that we must die.

The breeze came scented o'er the vines
Down limestone mountains ghostly pale;
What boundless hopes the heart confines!
And hopes should never faint nor fail.
The plaintive string, the wailing brass
Struck up a livelier note of glee;
But moods, like clouds at midnight, pass —
And who so sorrowful as we?

The laurels flashed their silver tongues
Within the perfumed moonlit night;
Our pulses overflowed with songs
Of life's ineffable delight, —
Then ebbed with fear of growing old,
With nameless dread, with shadowy care;
The balustrade was marble-cold,
And like a peach the wandering air.