Classic Poem

But at length the pleasant summer died, with all her blushing flowers;
And the winds among the willows caught a wilder, sadder tone;
All the singing birds departed to the bright palmetto bowers;
And beneath the melancholy trees the lovers met alone;

Met to tell the same fond story, so bewildering in its sweetness,
When obstructions insurmountable lie loving hearts between;
Met to talk of all life's lovely, but impossible completeness.
And to sigh, as lovers always sigh, for that which might have been.

But one day there came a parting, full of sadness, full of sorrow,
And such tearful words as blighted to the sick heart's deepest core:
Ah, for them there was no future!—ah, for them no bright to-morrow!
And they saw but desolation where all beauty was before.

But they parted, and a sickness, very grievous, seized the lady,
Till her voice, so sweetly musical, grew tremulous and and weak;
And her step, through all the autumn, went more languid and unsteady,
And the shadow on her spirit stole the roses from her cheek.

Far and near renowned physicians tried, with efforts unavailing,
All the remedies suggested by the teaching of their art;
But her sickness mocked their wisdom, and her strength kept daily failing;
They concocted no elixir that could heal a breaking heart.

But they recommended travel, and her doting father bore her
Straight to Italy's unclouded skies, unending summer bloom;
Hoping that the ocean journey, milder climate, would restore her,
Or, at worst, delay her going from life's morning to the tomb.

So, the travelers came to Florence, when the Tuscan moonlight beaming,
Bound the summits of the Apennines with bands of paley gold;
Folded shadows round the palaces where human hearts were dreaming;
Kissed and overflowed the Arno with its beauty manifold.