Classic Poem

What thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain.

I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled;
O! dry, mute lips, ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves,
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim.

That found thee when thy sunny mouth
Was purpled, as with drinking wine:
For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead for me, and wrong,
For this I use my subtlest art,
For this I fold thee in my song.