Classic Poem

The long stripped days, the nights void of a kiss,
The streets wherein not any step I take
Brings sound or sight of you, though my heart break,
Yea, the round year—were not my trouble this,
It would be yours, belovèd; one must miss
Honey for gall, and one go unbereft;
One must be taken and the other left;
I praise God that my bitter is your bliss.
Out of this thought, as out some reed apace,
I draw a faltering music for relief,
Yet sweet enough to make, from door to door,
My empty house a habitable place.
My tears break off: I will have naught of grief,
For I remember you do weep no more.