Classic Poem

Fain would I call that night which spreads so fast
Out of the vault of death's abysmal skies,
A gentle gloom like that of thy dark eyes:
Fain would I say that we, like children, cast
Our blindfold faces with a timid haste
Into a mother's lap—ere long to rise
Some little forfeit and some sweet surprise,
The playful future of a playful past.
But ah! it is not so. Reality
Makes a dread language of this ebbing breath;
Preaching those awful homilies of death
Which sound so like each other at their close.
The least of sins is infinite: it throws
A shade into the face of the Most High.