Classic Poem

Ah ! Mary, Mary, queen of hearts,
Unhumbled by the years,
Thy memory has magic arts
To move the springs of tears;
The springs of tears and love to move,
For both fulfilled thy fate;
And still will one the other prove
And love be weeping late.

Late, ah! so late for me to come
A mourner at thy grave,
When death has bidden all be dumb
That would, but could not save;
Late, ah! so late for me to weep,
Who only know thy name,
When those who magnified thee sleep
With those who mocked thy fame.

The mournfullest in majesty,
The queenliest to mourn,
Most beautiful in misery,
In misery forlorn.
'Tis all the world remembers now,
But never now to frown —
The glory of a perfect brow,
The shadow of a crown.