Classic Poem

'Till L'aura comes who now alas! elsewhere
Breathes amid fields and forests, hard of heart,
Bereft of joy I stray, from crowds apart
In this dark vale, 'mid grief and ire's foul air,
Where there is nothing left of bright or fair
Since Love has gone a rustic to the plough,
Or feeds his flocks — or in the summer now
Handles the rake — now plies the scythe with care.
Happy the mead and valley, hill and wood,
Where man and beast, and almost tree and stone
Seem by her look with sense and joy endued:
What is not changed on which her eyes e'er shone?
The country courteous grows, the city rude
Even from her presence or her loss alone!