Classic Poem

The world is filled with beauty; 'tis a rose
That wafts its fragrance through the air around,
As each day bursts — a flower from underground —
To fold into itself at evening's close.
This ache of loveliness is sweet to those
Who, life-long, suffer some intemporal wound;
The morn is consolation, and the night, profound,
Offers her starlit spaces of repose.

Enough for me the usual day unrolled,
Though the long road be dimmed with dust of care, —
Though Love be flown on pinions dawn-empearled:
O Present-Life, chalice of things most fair,
Leave me not yet — not yet — all unconsoled,
And sad with promise of a better world.