Classic Poem

I can see her standing yet,
Dewy-eyed,
As she stood that summer morn
At my side;
It is not so long ago
That I parted from her so;
Yet the gulf is fixed, I know,
Deep and wide.

Down the garden path we walked
To the gate,
And I begged her, " Ah, my own,
Name the date. "
But she answered: " No, my dear,
'Tis your fickleness I fear —
I will try you for a year —
You must wait. "

Grief was on my features then
Written plain,
For she said: " I'm sorry, dear,
For your pain.
Take this little rose, I pray;
It will wither in a day.
But my love for you for aye
Shall remain. "

Love is sometimes sweet and sure,
I suppose;
Who would not have faith in such
Vows as those?
But, alas! I'm forced to rue
That they were but semi-true,
For her love has withered too,
Like the rose.

See, I let it flutter thus
To my feet.
Ah, 'twas summer when its charms
Were complete.
Save it not: my heart is set,
For 'tis wise I should forget,
And its perfume lingers yet,
Faint and sweet.