Classic Poem

Sweet Love is dead,—yes, dead and laid to rest.
Ah, dainty was the fabric of his shroud,
Cut from the pearly edges of a cloud.
They placed a fragrant lily on his breast,
And all the souls his visitings had blest
Followed him to the grave with heads low bowed,
Though there were many great, and good, and proud.
And those by fame and fortune oft caressed.
Poor Love! he could not live when golden dross
Bought the warm kisses that were once his due,
Paid for the tender clasp of clinging hands,
And banished the fair flowers that were the bands
Binding the loving hearts that served him true,
And so he died—oh, who will tell the loss?