Classic Poem

Ah who shall bid the breeze of evening blow
To fan my throbbing temples? who shall bring
From the clear well of some perennial spring
(Whence living waters trickle with sweet flow)
Cold chrystal drops, to cool the fervid glow
That kills my heart with more than scorpion sting?
Who o'er my breast the dews of night shall fling'
And bid my soul her long-lost calmness know?....
Still mourn, my soul! and be thou still content,
Joyless amid the joyous, o'er thy grief
To brood in sadness: then, if sharp, yet brief
Will be thy pangs; soon will their force be spent;
And thou hast learnt, if Time no cure has lent,
To court one friend that brings thee sure though slow relief.