Classic Poem

This is the sting of death, that it includes
The fact that thou must leave me. Oh, death knows
And harps upon the sharpest of our woes!
Not the sweet silences of dim pine-woods,—
Not the bright airs of mountain-solitudes,—
Not the white flashing of the far-off snows,
Nor even the scent on June-nights of the rose
Nor skies whereo'er the royal sunset broods—
To leave these things is agonizing pain,
But worse than all the pain of all these things
And filled with sharper and more poisonous stings
Is the black thought that I may still remain
In this same world, yet never through all springs
Mix thought with fiery thought of thine again.