Classic Poem

SWEETS THAT DIE

How fades that native breath
The rose exhales,
Whenas her bloom is o'er!
Altho' her petals on the evening gales
Are wafted by, a fleet of fairy sails,
She is, alas! no more.

And love dies like the rose,
And fills the air
With many a deep drawn sigh:
Shall I not both embalm with sacred care,
That they may have, in sweetly-breathid air,
Their immortality!