Classic Poem

Earth, like a goblet empty of delight,
Empty of summer and balm-breathing hours,
Empty of music, empty of all flowers,
Now with that other draught of death and night
And loss, and iron bitterness refills.
The upland rifts are gleaming white with snow
The north wind pipes, the forest groans below,
The clouds are heaping grandly on the hills.
Yet thou complainest not, O steadfast Earth,
Beautiful mother with thy stoic fields;
In all the ages since thy fiery birth
Deep in thine own wide heart thou findest still
Whatever comforts and whatever shields,
And plannest also for us the same sheer will.