Classic Poem

It is a weird that cries across black water,
And in my heart there is no rest at all,
But dim, unquiet dreams of ancient slaughter—
Spring, Summer, Fall.

Sometimes only the wind on the frosty reaches
With the low cry my heart has learned to know;—
But in its voice that other voice beseeches
Through wind and snow.

Sometimes night, with the hush and the starry glamour,
Allures my feet to uplands far and lone;
Over the dark horizon drifts a clamour
Of words unknown.

And then I dream it is my own soul calling
Through the blind urge of life's eternal deep,
Across the sobbing sound of spent dreams falling
On death and sleep.