Classic Poem

WHEREIN HER BEAUTY STILL HONOURS AND HAUNTS HIS SOLITUDE

How often from my own soul I have fled,
Or from the world to some sweet sombre place —
Only to feel the hot tears scald my face!
Only to hear them beat the grass like lead!
How often, my dark heart inhabited
With ghosts, I go through shadowed glens to trace
Once more in thought that glory and that grace
Which honour Death! ... Ah Death, that I were dead!
How often, gleaming like some water-sprite
From Sorga's breast, I see my soul's delight;
Or watch her in some river-revery;
Or mark the delicate flowers spring upright
From her tread, as from mortal's — while the light
Of pity fills her face and falls on me!