Classic Poem

By the brook the youth was sitting
And a wreath of flowers wound,
Watched the dancing petals flitting
In the ripples round and round.
So my days are passing, passing,
Ever restless like the burn,
And my youth is fading, fading,
As the drooping garlands turn!

Ask me not why I am mourning
In my budding youthful days,
When the bloom of Spring returning
Hope and joy to all conveys.
Ah! the thousand voices darting
From awakening Nature round,
In my secret bosom smarting,
Do but grave a deeper wound.

What avails to me the pleasure
Offered by the fairy May?
One I seek—one only treasure,
Ever near, yet far away.
Wide my arms are strained to clasp her,
Press the vision to my breast,
But, alas! they fail to grasp her,
And my soul despairs of rest.

Ah! descend, my sacred beauty,
From thy proud embattled keep!
Flowers it shall be my duty
In thy fragrant lap to heap.
Hark! with songs the grove is swelling,
Purls the brook serene and fair,
Spacious is the lowliest dwelling
To a happy loving pair.