Classic Poem

Love without passion is a flower without sun,
Reft of the wind's touch, banished from the rain
Wrought against nature — therefore wrought in vain
However fine its tissue may be spun;
Its petals fade and wither one by one
And in the dust and under dust are lain;
Love without passion is the dying strain
From shattered lutes that all to minors run.

True love is as the rose; the roses glow
With life and color in the summer air.
The winds of Autumn through the garden blow,
The leaves are scattered and the vines are bare,
The snows depart, the grass springs up, and lo!
Again the ruddy rose is blooming there.