Classic Poem

Ah, what is this dust
That dims the sunshine,
And falls, a grey rust,
Upon poplar and pine
And the steppes' burnt crust,
To their last confine —
This grey darkening dust
That dims the sky-line?

Last year, ah me!
It could laugh and weep;
A child climbed its knee,
On its breast fell asleep;
It ploughed the low lea,
To sow and to reap —
Last year, ah me!

O wandering dust,
Without rest in the grave!
O dim grey rust,
'Twas but little to crave
In the steppes' burnt crust
A home in the grave,
'Gainst the wandering lust
Of the wild wind's wave!