Classic Poem

The day is long; the worn Noon dreams.
He shifts in vain, to ease his pain,
And through what seems, he hears a song:

A forest song, whose high note seems
To tell of pain, endured in vain,
And fills his dreams with things lost long.

A dead love seems to thrill that song;
Hope nursed in vain, years passed in pain,
Leaves fallen long, a tide that dreams.

Then, as he dreams, the shades grow long;
And, in his pain, he moans in vain,
While fades the song of what but seems.