Classic Poem

There is so much loveliness gone out of the world!
There is left but the violet dusk of the wood
And the slow wavering of grey-blue hills on the sky.
The dead grass is silent and the dead leafage whirled
Down the long lanes of silent air. The barberry
Drips from its twisted crown of thorns slow drops of blood.

These are the days when the soul is less than a leaf
Blown through the shrivelled grass or left on the frozen sod;
For these, if they fail, fail with one more sure than they.
Now doubt stands long by the murdered bed of relief
And feels for his own side; the soul stares at decay,
Then turns slowly, triumphantly, swiftly to God.