Classic Poem

What ails the weak unhappy breeze
That ceaselessly it wanders on,
And sorrows like the soul that sees
An evil waiting to be done?
The shed leaf whirls, the tree is bowed,
Faint lines the lake's sereneness mar,
And slowly falls a veil of cloud
On Heaven's solitary star.

The moon is buried far away,
No meteor flies with fiery trace
Past Night's slow car, nor any ray
Will fire thy pale resolved face.
Unveil! ere Morn's accusing flush
Smites splendour from the eastern sea —
Then, if the innocent heavens can blush,
O what a visage thine should be!

There are no ghosts — or all the dead
I ever loved were surely here
To snatch the slumberer from his bed,
To wrest the dagger from my fear.

His sleep is sound — would it were light!
O had his age a giant's stress!
Thou art my soul's insane delight,
O would thou wert my murderess!