Classic Poem

Come in the year's mid-summer and in thine,
Into the deep soft midnight for a space,
'Mong wild closed flowers and wheat, a meek tilled place
Of folded poppies, maize, and rills of vine.
There, young and mournful, in this realm of mine,
With only a little growing grass for thy face,
Only the labouring earth for thine embrace
All my young heart shall sing for thee and shine;
A nightingale and loneliest of fire-flies
Palpitate in the darkness light and strain,
Tho' thine own stars be stifled in soft skies,
And thine own music mute, for any pain.
And I have dews to wet thy quiet eyes
Till thou forsake me for thy life again.