Classic Poem

Day droops on stems of pallid light
Over these sodden northern fields,
And I am lonely, thinking here,
Cynthia, of you.

Here life is but a phantom of himself
And limps and mutters by these war-worn paths,
And I could weep to waste my youth,
Cynthia, from you.

O rose that filled my mouth with life!
Wine of your lips, your budded breasts!
How could I serve another god,
Cynthia, but you?