Classic Poem

A face keeps peeping at me through the pane;
I know thee: thou art Madness. — Where are they,
The men in masks, who stole my child away?
All day, all night, I hunt for it in vain.

I hear all round me, ever and again,
A pattering of little feet at play,
But can see nought. — Come child, come child, it's May;
We'll dance the Dance of Death o'er hill and plain.

The painted Virgin in the chapel shrine
Has seven daggers sticking in her breast:
I think there must be seventy in mine,

Oh for an earthquake! — Crimson clouds to West ...
The sun's face stops to drink; it drinks the brine.
I too drink brine. — Those little feet can't rest.