Classic Poem

I chafe at darkness in the night,
But when 'tis light,
Hope shuts her eyes; the clouds are pale;
The fields stretch cold into a distance hard:
I wish again to draw the veil
Thousand-starred.

Am I of them whose blooms are shed,
Whose fruits are spent,
Who from dead eyes see Life half dead;—
Because desire is feeble discontent?
Ah, no! desire and hope should die,
Thus were I.

But in me something clipped of wing,
Within its ring
Frets; for I have lost what made
The dawn-breeze magic, and the twilight beam
A hand with tidings o'er the glade