Classic Poem

What ails my heart when thou art nigh?
Why heaves the tender rising sigh?
Ah, Delia, is it love?
My breath in shorten'd pauses fly;
I tremble, languish, burn and die;
Dost thou those tremors prove?

Does thy fond bosom beat for me?
Dost thou my form in absence see,
Still wishing to be near?
Does melting languor fill thy breast?
That something, which was ne'er exprest,
Ah! tell me — if you dare.

But tho' my soul, soft, fond and kind,
Could in thy arms a refuge find,
Secur'd from ev'ry woe;
Yet, strict to Honour's louder strains,
A last adieu alone remains,
'Tis all the Fates bestow.

Then blame me not, if doom'd to prove
The endless pangs of hopeless love,
And live by thee unblest:
My joyless hours fly fast away;
Let them fly on, I chide their stay,
For sure 'tis Heav'n to rest.