Classic Poem

All that is fairest in this world—and dearest,
All that was she;
All that is loveliest to the heart—and nearest,
She was to me.

All that is sweetest to the longing spirit,
Her soul supplied;
All that can charm the soul until we fear it,
Her breast did hide.

Fair as the rose that blows in some wild bower,
Was her fair face.
Warm as the summer air, that clasps the flower,
Was her embrace.

As when bright waters—sunset gilded—flow
Among the cresses,
So did a ripple of the gloaming show,
Amid her tresses.

As when a muffled brook's cool shadowed singing
Floats from the dell;
So comes the cadence of her lost voice ringing
My soul's wild knell.

I seem to hear her step beside me tripping,
When that love's dream
In semblance of the sometime day comes slipping,
Along life's stream.

Along life's stream all silent now and lonely;
And when I hear
Some waking murmur, it can bring me only—
Grief's foolish tear.

In sorrow's world my aching fancy lingers,
Till sense is prone;
And tender memory clasps her dimpled fingers
Close in my own.

Could I but pierce the shadows, I could banish
My heart's distress;
But all that seems, and is not—soon must vanish
In bitterness.

All is but nothing—all the soul's endeavor
Returns in pain;
Dark, blank, despairing, loneliness forever—
All is but vain.

I know not whether life be true or fable,
Nor can I care;
All that did seem the best—has proved unstable,
As is the air.

All that was fairest in the world—and dearest,
All that was she;
All that was loveliest to my heart—and nearest,
She was to me.