Classic Poem

The sunsets burn and die,
The moon comes up the sky,
The white nights brood upon the closing year;
At this window thou didst stand
Where now within my hand
I lay my face, and know thou art not here.

What flowers of the south,
With white or crimson mouth,
Blow round thee through these hours and never die?
What shadows tropical
About thy chamber fall,
My own, in that far land where thou dost lie?

Thou star! as do arise
A mystic's raptured eyes
To some fair planet, his hereafter place,
So, rising from these drear
Last midnights of the year,
My spirit seeks the heaven of thy face!