Classic Poem

Your virgin clusters still are green,
Unpurpled yet the grapes' soft sheen.
Your roses in their buds still lie,
Nor naked brave the open sky.
But even now young Cupid takes
His swiftest shafts and ready makes,
And where the blaze would fain expire
Awakes the embers of his fire.
Fly, hapless lovers, fly ere yet
The arrow on the string be set;
That burning—I the future know—
Will yet more fierce and fiercer grow.