Classic Poem

Thy secret to my too inquiring eye
Is painted in the pages of thy cheek;
My counsel's comfort, ending with a sigh.
Show me but like thyself as fond and weak.
In vain my hope would struggle into speech.
And be a loving prophet, saying this—
‘We meet again ere long.’ I cannot teach
My heart to credit such a promised bliss.
And so I press thy hand, and kiss thy eyes
Washed by upwelling tears, and only feel
The future all a blank: I lose my prize
And gain a sorrow, comfort cannot heal.
We part in grief, silent as that vast fate
That rules all mortal lives in ancient state.