Classic Poem

There is a wind in the cedars,
A wind roughens the sea;
The lambs bleat for their leaders
Dolorously.

The wind chatters on the sea-wall
And wrangles with the rocks;
Pained and precise shudders the call
Of the flocks.

Far off a lone latch clicks and grates,
A voice beats thin and dies:
Death is a closing of dim gates,