Classic Poem

O, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown,
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair
For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,
Its tendrils in infancy curled,
'T is the ardor of August matures us the wine
Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form that was fashioned as light as a fay's
Has assumed a proportion more round,
And thy glance that was bright as a falcon's at gaze
Looks soberly now on the ground, —

Enough, after absence to meet me again
Thy steps still with ecstasy move;
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love.