Classic Poem

White, when I saw you last, with eyes as clear
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was, — when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send, — the last wave washed upon the strand, —
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land, —
Last petal of the last rose of the year.

The last long wailing of a harpsichord, —
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute, —
Last broken iridescence of a lute, —
Last gleam and snapping of a singer's sword;
Last surge of passion round about you poured;
Last sunset-lustre on love's golden fruit.