Classic Poem

Alone and sad, through some deserted scene
Loitering I roam, with slow and measured pace
My eyes intent to shun the slightest trace
That marks where any human foot has been.
Alas! I find no other resting place
From the keen gaze of crowds, which in the shew
Of Joys gone by, would read upon my face
The ravage of the flame that burns below:
And thus at length, the mountain and the plain,
River and dell, and fount and forest know
What others know not—all my life of pain;
And Love as through wild solitudes I go
Comes whispering in my ear some tender strain,
Or listening to my sorrows as they flow.