Classic Poem

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
Goes the clock of the rain in the eaves,
Long are the hours of the rain and the moon is hidden,
I would get up, I would put on my robe with silver sleeves,
And creeping through a whining door, bridle my horse with a silver bridle,
And ride out under the softly dripping leaves.
But the rain holds me in a monotonous net of sound,
Tick-tock, tick-tock,
I will to go and I do not will it,
And the opportunity passes as others pass, and the hours pass and are drowned,
And the moon will go down and the sun will rise with wet locks,
But there will be no mark of my horse in the teeming ground.