Classic Poem

Not now so oft by wanton revellers cast
The pebbles rattling on thy shutters pour,
Breaking thy slumber. To its threshold fast
Now clings the door,

That swung upon its hinges erst so free.
Less and less falls upon-thine ear the cry:
‘Can'st, Lydia, sleep while long nights through for thee
I pine and die?’

Thy turn will come, when lovers prove unkind,
Old, slighted, sad, the lonely lane to pace,
When the new moon brings in wild gusts the wind
That blows from Thrace.

The while consuming love and fierce desire,
That oft to frenzy goad brood mares, beset
Thy ulcer-tainted bosom, and inspire
With vain regret,

That to green ivy more gay youths incline,
And higher in esteem brown myrtle rate,
But withered leaves to Hebrus will consign,
Chill winter's mate.