Classic Poem

Sweeter than any name
Of power or blessing, of tumult or of calm,
The pride of any victory with its palm,
Sweeter than fame,
The love we bear to women in our youth,
When ardour cleaves to ardour, truth to truth;

When Beauty casts her sheaf
And flings its loaded treasure at our feet:
But bitter—bitter,—even as this is sweet,
The gathering grief
Of passionate love misplaced, or given in vain,
The love that bears no harvest save of pain.