Classic Poem

Close I held her all the night,
But she never ceased to grieve
From the hour when softly bright
Rose the star of eve —

" Cruel, cruel," was her cry,
" Harbinger of coming morn,
Soon the night will pass, and I
Shall be left forlorn."

Naught is sweet to Passion's slave;
All too short the hours of sleep;
Would that we such nights might have
As Cimmerians keep.