Classic Poem

Her carnival is over, and the glow
Of crowded, varied splendor is no more;
The pulses hot with revel now beat low,
While great convulsive tears she doth outpour.

Hark! even now she gives a long-drawn wail;
Low in the dust is all her beauty cast.
Who lately turned the artist's power pale
Now in a naked sorrow keeps her fast.

She will grow pure at last and be content
When heaven's whiteness covers all of her;
Her heart will feel, while wears away the Lent,
The hope of Easter's new-leaved glory stir!