Classic Poem

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain
— I hear your words in mournful cadence toll
— Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul
Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain
To batter down resistance, fall again
— Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,
— The bitter blows of truth, until the whole
Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.
— Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.
— Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
— Now in the haunted twilight I must do
— Your will. I grasp the cup which overruns,
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.