Classic Poem

I ask not the love of a heart that is burning
With all the wild fancies of youthful unrest,
That like the gay butterfly ever is turning
From blossom to blossom and never is blest.

I ask not the love of a soul that hereafter
May sigh to recall the delights that are flown,
For the life that is gleeful with song and with laughter
Would wither and die in the shade of my own.

The moon when surrounded by somber cloud billows
Doth shed a more tender and soul-soothing beam,
And the tide of affection is sweeter when willows
Of hallowing sorrow bend over the stream.