Classic Poem

The clouds went past me after the rain —
Mountains, continents, globes —
And beauty lay on my heart with pain
Like the weight of jewelled robes.

And I was glad that I shall not lie
Forever under the grass,
Never again to watch the sky
Where the marching mountains pass.

And I was glad that I have shed
The worst of beauty's pain,
The thought that I shall soon be dead
Never to look again;

That they have no glory to declare,
That they march to no heavenly town:
The yoke of beauty is easy to bear
Since I need not lay it down.