Classic Poem

To thirst with sacred longings,
And find the springs all dry,
And in my flower to fade,—not this
The grief for which I sigh.

Ere yet my cold, pale brow has been
Warmed by an ardent kiss,
To rest iTon a couch of earth,—
My sorrow is not this.

Ere I embrace a live bouquet
Of beauty, smiles and fire,
The cold grave to embrace,—not this
Can bitter grief inspire.

Ere a sweet, dreamful sleep has lulled
My tempest-beaten brain,
To slumber in an earthy bed,—
Ah, this is not my pain.

My country is forlorn, a branch
Withered on life's great tree;
To die unknown, ere succoring her,—
This only grieveth me!