Classic Poem

And thou art gone! Do I bewail thee? Not,
If wail needs words. Even tears refuse to flow.
Placid, I walk life's daily round; and, so,
The world may deem me peaceful—thee forgot.
Alas, alas, cold heart! men little know
That on the near and clement side of woe
Dwell every conscious grief. A sterner lot
Is frigid torpor, 'neath Fate's Arctic snow.
Test not the soul by obvious signs of gloom,
Save thou have insight. From some citadel,
Where falls a Queen amid her slaughtered train,
No cry goes forth—no cannon's sullen boom.
The hands are stiff that should have rung the knell
Judge the land loyal by its silent slain.