Classic Poem

So was it even then. So soundlessly
Over the land the clouded air hung hot,
And underneath the weeping beech's roof
Were tangled, where is hedged the garden-plot,
The blossom-vapors of the elder-tree;
My sultry hand she fondled, speaking not,
Voiceless with joy.

There was an odor of grave. . . . No guilt is mine!
Thou pale light up above there in the sky,
Why stand'st thou like a ghost pent in his shroud!
Why wilt thou pore upon me like God's eye?
Monitor image of the spirit bowed
Be quenched! I broke her not! She willed to die
Why should an alien anguish torture me. . . .

The land grows gray. And every willow-trunk
Like smoke stands in the fog's deep starless sea
Upon the corn the heavy sky seems sunk.
Motionless cling the wet leaves to the tree,
As though they all had poison drunk.
So silent now lies she.
I wish that I were dead.