Classic Poem

The rose you gave me, dear, is dead,
The hope which it begot
Is gone. An aching heart and head,
Is my unhappy lot.

Perhaps you could not fully know,
The danger of your smiles,
How often hearts are poisoned so,
By thoughtless maiden wiles.

I would not think so hard of heart
You thoughtfully could be;
To gratify a flirting art,
Such passion stirred in me.

Yet many a trusting heart has been
From honor made to rove,
In darksome ways and paths of sin,
By lightly feeding love.

This rose cut from its mother stem,
With thy unfeeling knife,
Has lost, though such a lovely gem,
All that could feed its life.

And faded its untimely death
Tells silently to me,
As is its fate and scentless breath,
So my heart's love must be.