Classic Poem

I TELL thee death were far more merciful
Than such a blow. It is death to the heart;
Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes;
The young religion of its guileless faith.
Henceforth the well is troubled at the spring;
The waves run clear no longer; there is doubt
To shut out happiness—perpetual shade;
Which, if the sunshine penetrate, 'tis dim,
And broken ere it reach the stream below.