Classic Poem

Ay me, alas! the beautiful bright hair
That shed reflected gold
O'er the green growths on either side the way:
Ay me! the lovely look, open and fair,
Which my heart's core doth hold
With all else of that best remembered day;
Ay me! the face made gay
With joy that Love confers;
Ay me! that smile of hers
Where whiteness as of snow was visible
Among the roses at all seasons red!
Ay me! and was this well,
O Death, to let me live when she is dead?

Ay me! the calm, erect, dignified walk;
Ay me! the sweet salute,—
The thoughtful mind,—the wit discreetly worn;
Ay me! the clearness of her noble talk,
Which made the good take root
In me, and for the evil woke my scorn;
Ay me! the longing born
Of so much loveliness,—
The hope, whose eager stress
Made other hopes fall back to let it pass,
Even till my load of love grew light thereby!
These thou hast broken, as glass,
O Death, who makest me, alive, to die!

Ay me! Lady, the lady of all worth;—
Saint, for whose single shrine
All other shrines I left, even as Love will'd;—
Ay me! what precious stone in the whole earth,
For that pure fame of thine
Worthy the marble statue's base to yield?
Ay me! fair vase fulfill'd
With more than this world's good,—
By cruel chance and rude
Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains
Where Death has shut thee in between hard stones!
Ay me! two languid fountains
Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns.

Ay me, sharp Death! till what I ask is done
And my whole life is ended utterly,—
Answer—must I weep on
Even thus, and never cease to moan Ay me?