Classic Poem

It was the fruit on high,
From whence the chosen seed
Has found its moorless love
Therein, the human creed.

O soul of fatal refrain! —
Like the corn, flowers a cover
Over its skin, doth feign
From a mood; there love can hover.

Ah! by the shore of moss
And through the thrown-up rocks
There whispers the toneful moon;
The mingling serenade looks.