Classic Poem

These weeping skies, these weeping skies,
They weep so much, that I weep too;
And every thing, like Mary's eyes,
Around, above, below, looks blue .
Such days as these will never do,
My Muse can never soar again;
Her wings are wetted through and through,
She tries to fly, but all in vain.

Love brought a wreath, a laurel wreath,
And it was steeped in fog, not dew;
The little urchin drooped beneath,
And gladly down his burden threw.
" The Sylphs have sent a wreath to you. "
He laughed as he his errand told.
" What makes it look so very blue? "
Says Love, " It 's only touched with mould. "

I twined the wreath around my brow,
And felt my brain grow numb and chill;
If I had worn the wreath till now,
My heart had been for ever still.
Oh! skies that weep so much will kill
The Muses, and their servant, Love;
Their home is on the sunny hill,
Where naught is blue but heaven above.