Classic Poem

When love is over, are we most alone.
When hearths are black, there is the cold of stone.
I rise from my bed and walk the dismal night,
Weeping, I seek alone my ultimate right.

The warmth and cheer of Love is but a lure,
By which the blood is cheated to endure.
To each man is a path, by other feet untrod,
Which leads him, lonely, to the hill of God.

On God's cold hill, there is a holy height,
Where splendid fires descend to man at night:
On the cold traveller falls the livening breath,
To raise him high in life, and proud in death.