Classic Poem

Upon the balcony, where her longing eyes
The road to far-off Italy can trace,
'Neath a pale olive branch she bows her face.
The violet blooms to-day, to-morrow dies.

Her viol then with fragile hand she tries,
That soothes her solitude and saddened case,
And dreams of him whose heedless footsteps pace
The dust wherein Rome's fallen grandeur lies.

The soul of her he called his Angevine sweet
Bids each vibrating string divinely beat,
Whene'er her troubled heart feels love's sharp pain;

And on the winds her notes far distant run,
Caressing, it may be, the faithless one
In song he sang for winnower of grain.