Classic Poem

The waning moon weeps o'er thy grave, dear Margaret;
Night's dewy tears hang on the bending grass.
O let me weep my sorrows o'er it too,
Though from each grave there come a vapory ghost,
To pity my unfledged soul that cannot rise
To where in beauty thou, with the free, art soaring!—
O, I will worship thee with tears! with tears
I'll ever speak of thee; for only they
Can tell our thoughts of thee. Let no one say
That sorrowing is vain—it is the dew
That falls at evening from our heaven of love.
One drop of sorrow heals the troubled heart
More than a thousand tongues of consolation
Sweet Sorrow, still with thee O let me kneel
Beside this peaceful grave, and all alone!
Away all forms of custom, pomp, and show;
And let no outward thing obstruct the flood
That gushes from my heart; but, sunk into
A very dungeon of abstracted thought,
And with one sole idea in my mind
Of the sweet form that here in peace is sleeping,
O let me bend—a weeping willow o'er it—
Till, tear by tear, this flesh thaw to the earth,
And, thought by thought, my soul steal from its prison,
Meeting beyond, in the unseen world of spirit,
With thee, beloved, sweet, lost, lovely being!