Classic Poem

I struggle on through every weary day,
Well knowing that at night a rest will come:
That then I shall behold my blossom's bloom
And count her new buds, — in the twilight grey.
The hours of sunlight are to me a tomb
Most piteous; but the darkness changes all;
Then do I seek thee through the star-hung hall
Of night, soft-guided by some strange perfume.

The long days pierce me with a reckless sword;
Their wild hours hustle me, they heed not how;
Yet have I thee all anguish to allay.
An ample and most exquisite reward
Is thy sweet kiss that lights upon my brow
After the agony of another day.