Classic Poem

But there are lonely times when all the seas
Seem stricken into mournful dreary grey,
And no sunlight streams o'er the darkened day,
And not one sign of music charms the breeze
Or breaks the silence of the leaden trees,
Nor are the clouds made glad by one moonray:
We are not yet completely one; delay
Wearies, — and lonely long weeks blight and freeze.

Then life seems purposeless. My lyre rings hollow:
I cease to track the footprints of Apollo,
And every sunset's wings, once draped in gold,
Hang damp and heavy o'er the lifeless woods,
And windless are the waste drear solitudes
Wherethrough once Love's embroidered sandal strolled.