Classic Poem

I doubt a lovely thing is dead,
An inward thing, so clear and sweet;
I come at night and lay my head
Against its breast, and hear no beat;
I touch its hands, and feel no heat.

Lo! I have slain a lovely thing,
For I am blind in soul and sight;
If it would live, it needs must sing,
It could not prosper in the night;
It waned, and waited for the light.

With loneliness and empty rooms,
With dust and ashes of the past,
I sat and heard the busy looms
Work out the warp of First and Last;
Where night and day the shuttle cast.

A gentle thing, that blooms in love,
That lies with Beauty in her bed;
How slow for me the counters move
Through senseless fingers, on their thread;
Alas for me, that it is dead!