Classic Poem

I drew a marsh of solemn gray;
And over it a heron flew;
It was a sullen autumn day
When that sad marsh I drew.
But, over all the wistful waste,
A spirit seemed to ride above.
And someone bade me call the scene:
“The Haunt of a Lost Love.”

I turned from solemn meres to gay
And dancing troops of summer flowers.
I etched the mountains and the play
Of light about their towers.
And, though I warmed my brush's flow
In fern and flower and turtle-dove,
A stranger passed and wrote below:
“The Haunt of a Lost Love.”

What matter if I limn a gnome
Amid the gloom of Druid trees;
Or branches breaking into foam
Of blossom on the breeze;
Or debris of the storm that floats
In black and broken clouds above!
Since all who come to view shall say,
Whether I paint the grave or gay:
“His lost love passed along this way.”