Classic Poem

The maid was reaping on the mead,
There came a knight on knightly steed—
It was no knight—no knight, in truth,
It was her own beloved youth.

“G REEN is the lovely rosemary,
Sweet maiden! glad and joyful be!
From war's alarms thy youth shall rest:
Why sink thine eyes upon thy breast?”

“Be green thou flowret of the tomb—
O wretched is the maiden's doom.
Three years I waited—lingering on—
He came not, when three years were gone.”

What didst thou here, sweet maiden! say,
Didst come to weep for one away?
And did thy blooming roses fade,
When distance threw me in the shade?

“What did I?—Nothing—but despair;
Sigh'd with the breezes of the air;
Wept with the melancholy dew—
Love from the maiden's bosom flew—
I am betroth'd—and wedded too.”