Classic Poem

SINCE Lois died the tyrant Sun
Drags haggard in his orbit bound
This puppet Earth, whose seasons run
For me an aimless, wasted round.

Incessantly I think to die,

Nor ever doubt that Death is Peace,
And many an hour I ponder why
My soul desists from her release.

I do not dread the crash of pain
For one loud moment at the close,

Nor shrink to taste the slow, inane,
Pervasive opiate’s repose.

But in my saddest trances still
Her steadfast soul upholdeth mine
To endure till it be Nature’s will

My heart shall cease to be her shrine.