Classic Poem

These gay snuff-boxes will be whispering still
Of fragrant satin pockets that are dust,
Of iron wrists beneath a lacy frill,
Or candles long burnt-out, or swords that rust;
Here is dim gossip told in merry gems,
A dallying glance, a hand too hotly kissed;
And here are crests for pride, and diadems,
Deep set in sapphire or pale amethyst.
Trinkets — perhaps? Or dainty souls that went
Enameled too, in colors frail and rare,
So idly living and so lightly spent,
They make a music still upon the air,
A tinkling tune for bow and stately tread,
That will play on, though all who danced are dead.