Classic Poem

The very towers that time destroys,
Time may rebuild as built before;
But ruins of departed joys —
These can be rear'd to joy no more.

The forests which the axe hath laid
In dust, may spring to life anew;
But — have the dying or the dead
A germ which spring can waken too?

M Y love is wrapp'd in mortal clay —
But were a granite bed his own,
With mine own nails I'd dig my way,
Through even the hardest granite-stone.