Classic Poem

I SPEAK your name in alien ways, while yet
November smiles from under lashes wet.
In the November light I see you stand
Who love the fading woods and withered land,
Where Peace may walk, and Death, but not Regret.

The year is slow to alter or forget;
June's glow and autumn's tenderness are met.
Across the months by this swift sunlight spanned,
I speak your name.

Because I loved your golden hair, God set
His sea between our eyes. I may not fret,
For, sure and strong, to meet my soul's demand,
Comes your soul's truth, more near than hand in hand;
And low to God, who listens, Margaret,
I speak your name.