Classic Poem

Wide through the world I hear the wailing cry
Of Nature's forces, sorrowing to die;
The swift revolving months, the rolling tides,
The cataract foaming down the mountain sides,
The high-piled glacier and the towering tree,
And the deep fountains of the lower sea,
These sound in solemn notes the weary woe
Of years relentless, that with sun and snow,
Cold rain, and winds tempestuous, roar along,
Turning their sweetest anthems to sad song.

“So long! so long!” they say, and sadly sigh,
And in the meadows green the great herds lie,
Or listless crop the grass that hangs the head:
And the sweet flowers are moaning to be dead.
The birds sing low, as though their hearts were cold,
And dull and dusty are the flame and gold
Of sunset clouds. The falcon, poised on high,
Sees the white dove go slowly winging by,
And does not strike: and wolves with sheep lie down,
Where in the forest gather soft and brown
The fallen leaves: even the bright brooks seem
To lie entranced within a doleful dream.

Among the languid blooms, too sweet to die,
The droning bee on listless wing doth fly,
Passing unheeded by the honied store
So wont to tempt him in the days of yore,
His merry hum all sadly out of tune,
Even amid the golden light of June.

The ships lie idle on the sun-bright sea,
Their broad sails shining, as they hang all free
From strain of wind; not even a breath is there
To wake the slumbering stillness of the air;
Only a few short sighs, that sweep the waves
Like ghosts of breezes wandering from their graves.

Slowly the moon sails by the fading stars,
Whose thin light falls in broken silver bars,
Between gray clouds, that like cold shrouds float o'er
Her white and narrow face, a ghastly store
Of robes to wreathe a beauty weary grown,
And feeling all its youthful treshness flown.

Then night's dim shadows die by slow degrees,
And rising up from the cold shores of seas,
Whose waves run up the sand without a sound,
The storm clouds come, and darken all the ground;
Amid their gloom the lightning faintly glows,
The thunder groans in low, despairing throes,
And like tears wept for some slow sinking pain,
In sad and solemn cadence falls the rain.

All day contronting on a level plain,
Where rotten falls the ripe, neglected grain,
Two armies stand beside their silent guns,
And watch the river, where it winding runs
Among the meadows; stand, but do not fight—
Their chieftains have in conquest lost delight.

No more mad hate wells upward from its springs,
And envy now has lost its bitter stings;
No eyes are bright, nor are there lips found sweet;
There are no trysts where lovers haste to meet;
The suitor turns him from the half-won kiss,
There is no gladness left him even in this;
Cold are the pleasures that were once so dear,
And words like home and wife have lost their cheer.
There is no prize can quicken the slow breath,
Save the chill smile of swift approaching death.