Classic Poem

I SYMPATHIZE with all thy grief,
As though it were my own and more,
For all my loving days are o'er,
While thine still last, though dark and brief.

If any prayer of mine could save
The well-beloved from her fate,
I would not cease to storm the gate
Of Heaven, till Mercy shut her grave.

But prayers on prayers are all in vain;
The destiny of man is fixed:
The bitter cups of Death are mixed,
And we must drink, and drink again.

All words are idle: words from me
Are doubly so: my soul for years
Has used no other speech than tears:
But these I freely offer thee.