Classic Poem

WHEREIN THE POET AWAITS LAURA AT A PROMISED TRYST — IN VAIN

Either that blind flame which destroys the heart,
Numbering the hours, cheats my misery,
Or the time pledged to mercy and me,
Even as I speak, speeds like a plunging dart.
Alas! what cruel shadow blights the chart
Of the seed so near its hoped maturity?
What beast within my fold roars balefully?
What wall keeps hand and ear of corn apart?
Alas! I know not, but in truth I guess
Love to such joyful hope has merely led
To sink my life more deeply in distress;
And I remember now what once I read:
That till the final instant of release
Man's bliss begins not, man's woe cannot cease.