Classic Poem

When soft and sweet the summer moon
Smiled down, and all was peace,
And every pulse of mine kept tune,
I learned her name, — Felice.

First on the beach, then in the brine
(Some thought it was my niece),
She laid her little hand in mine,
And said she was — Felice.

And all who sat along the shore
And watched the tide's increase,
Knew I was Felix o'er and o'er.
Did they think her — Felice?

Still swings on high the self-same moon;
Still all around seems peace.
Still sit I on the sandy dune;
But where is she, — Felice?

The summer moon still swings on high —
Oh, summer, must you cease?
Infelicissimus am I;
But she is still — Felice.