Classic Poem

It is with me, as erst with you,
Oh poet, nature's chronicler,
The summer seas have lost their hue
And storm sits brooding everywhere.

The gentlest rustling of the deep
Is but the dirge of him I lost,
And when waves raise their furrows steep,
And bring foam in which is tossed.

A voice I hear upon the wind
Which bids me haste to join him there,
And woo the tempest's breath unkind
Which gives to me a kindred bier.

And when all smooth are ocean's plains
And sails afar are glittering,
The fairest skiff his form contains
To my poor heart's fond picturing.

Then wildly to the beach I rush,
And fain would seize the frailest boat,
And from dull earth the slight hull push,
On dancing waves towards him to float.

" Nor may I e'er again behold
The sea, and be as I have been;
My bitter grief will ne'er grow old,
Nor say I this with mind serene."

For oft I weep in solitude
And shed so many bitter tears,
While on past joys I vainly brood
And shrink in fear from coming years.