Classic Poem

Her face, for utter stillness, hath no peer.
— Whether the Spring makes verdant hill and plain,
— Or the snow falleth, or the soft sweet rain,
She changeth not throughout the changing year.
Her eyes are tranquil: not the hosts of Fear,
Not grief, although he rent her heart in twain,
Nor joy, although he gave it her again,
Could from those crystal depths compel a tear.
The fighting waters, meeting as they fight
In frothy combat with the flood increase;
They leave the pool above them clear and bright,
But flecked with foam, to show where strife did cease.
How vain this token of their vanished might!
— How dreadful was the war that left this peace!