Classic Poem

Oft as my lady sang for me
That song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea,
Of the grave and the rock and the cypress-tree,
Strange was the pleasure that over me stole,
For 't was made of old sadness that lives in my soul.

So still grew my heart at each tender word,
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred,
And I hardly breathed, but only heard:
Where was I? — not in the world of men,
Until she awoke me with silence again.

Like the smell of the vine, when it early bloom
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume,
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room:
Whether it came from the vine without,
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt.

Light shadows played on the pictured wall
From the maples that fluttered outside the hall,
And hindered the daylight, — yet, ah! not all;
Too little for that all the forest would be, —
Such a sunbeam she was to me!

When my sense returned, as the song was o'er,
I fain would have said to her, " Sing it once more; "
But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore:
Music enough in her look I found,
And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound.