Classic Poem

Now that the dawn and noonday of our glory
No longer floods your eyes or stays your rest,
I will recall each fragment of the story,
Pluck from our love all that was loveliest
And weave therewith a tent where the world's thunder
Vainly shall strive to pierce the golden thread;
Where I can warm my spirit with your wonder,
That cannot die till God Himself be dead,

Until at length my purgèd soul goes straying,
(While my eyes follow where they cannot lead),
Lonely across the vales and hills, essaying
To find the last fulfilment of its need;
Till o'er your tomb it stays and, hesitating,
Sees grey wastes rise and ghostly galleons pass;
Crosses the Stygian sea to find you waiting,—
And rests beneath the sighing of the grass.