Classic Poem

Roses may weary of their suave, rare scent;
If the apparent azure of the sky
Were really fair, would white clouds hurry by?
The songs of birds may be for Death's ear meant.

The brook perchance may moan its discontent,
And tremulous leaves wave litanies, to try
In these mute ways to move the power on high,
And by such sad appeal make God relent!

If Nature grieves, supremely unsatisfied,
Waiting in vain the paradise of decay,
I will not in life's desert, seeing this wrong,
Spaniel to unjust powers and please their pride,
Having no heart to sing their praise alway,
I, who am crushed, poor Ishmael of song!