Classic Poem

Some strange story I have read
Of a man without a soul.
Mind he had, though soul had fled;
Magic gave him gifts instead,
And the form of youth he stole.

Grows a rose-azalea white,
In my garden, near the way.
I who see it with delight,
Dream its soul of odor might,
In the past, have fled away.

Blanche (O, sweet, you are so fair,
So sweet, so fair, whate'er you do),
Twine no azalea in your hair,
Lest I think in my despair,
Heart and soul have left you too.