Classic Poem

The clouds draw closer, the oak trees groan,
On the verdant bank sits a maiden alone.
The billows are breaking with might — with might,
And she groans aloud to the desolate night,
And her eyes are dim with tears.

" The world is a blank, and my heart is sore,
No hope of mine shall be granted more.
Father, recall me, if such thy will,
Of the pleasures of earth I have had my fill;
I have lived and I have loved! "

But all in vain were the tears she shed,
For no lamentation can wake the dead;
" Yet say what comfort can best atone
For the holy joy of the love which is gone,
That comfort shall be thine. "

" Though all in vain are the tears I shed,
Though no lamentation can wake the dead,
The remedy which can best atone
For the holy joy of the love which is gone
Is the pang of Love itself. "