Classic Poem

A ROSE to smell a moment, then to leave,
Chance strain of song you smile at as you pass,
Bubble that breaks before you lip the glass,
Chain frail as the frail thread that spiders weave;
Oh, do not think that I myself deceive!
Thus, and not otherwise, to you am I,—
A moment's pleasure as you pass me by,
Powerless, at best, to make you joy or grieve.

And you, to me, my sun-god and my sun,
Who warmed my heart to life with careless ray!
Forever will that burning memory stay
And warm me in the grave when life is done:—
What farther grace has any woman won?
Since your chance gift you cannot take away.