Classic Poem

The loves depart and vanish, one by one,
Like women gathering up receding gowns
And smiling into night,—and their gold crowns
Are as the stormy setting of a sun
Over whose shuddering face the damp clouds run,
And finger and distress him till he drowns;
And their red roses like short flowers on downs,
And their gold garments even as cobwebs spun,
And their gold tresses as the horrid locks
Of some dispersed and slippery cold weed
Clinging in brown flat coils upon the rocks,
And kisses only as the floating seed
The thistle gives to air,—and as coarse stocks
The blossoms where our passions used to feed.