Classic Poem

O, when a maiden's soul is stirred
To pity's deepest, last excess,
And, like some lonely, brooding bird,
Folds its bright wings in mournfulness;
And pours its sympathy in sighs,
That sweeten on the rosy lips;
And sends the tears into the eyes,
To flood them with a half eclipse,—
How brighter its veiled beauty shows
Than all the light which joy bestows!

Thus fairer the fair flower appears,
Beneath a dewy fullness bowed;
The moon a double lustre wears,
Within the halo of a cloud.
The music of a maiden's mirth
May be the sweetest sound to earth;
But tears, in love and pity given,
Are welcomer, by far, to Heaven.