Classic Poem

I could have wished the few last precious hours
I had with thee, dear friend, should have been given
To dreams of love, and thoughts and hopes of Heaven.
Autumn is out among these woodland bowers:
Still am I lingering here, as loth to part
From my soul's glorious king. Yet ah! my heart
Hath been at wayward angry war with thine.
I spoke rude words of those who are at rest,
Profaning him whose memory thou dost shrine
In some choice niche within thy secret breast.
'Twas a rude act: but friendships newly sprung
Are flowers of timid growth and little faith. —
The softest footfall and the lightest breath
Will jar a chord that hath been overstrung.