Classic Poem

Unblest , discomfortable thing,
Bowed languid shape of slow-eyed Grief,
Why com'st thou hand in hand with Spring,
Not sere with Autumn's pining leaf?

If there were dimness in the green,
And dankness in the clammy mould,
And silence where the birds had been,
And in the air a subtle cold,

And paleness in the mid-day beams:
If the low clouds had rents and gaps
Torn by sharp winds, and misty steams
Concealed the river's silver lapse,

Then might I confidently meet
Nature abroad, nor need to sue,
But with my heart her heart would greet,
And we should talk as kindred do.

For Grief beside the mirror grows
Stiller and milder more and more;
And Comfort is of wedded woes
The offspring and inheritor.

But will she hear complaint of mine
To whom her birds are singing all,
Whose April tears in sunburst shine
An instant, dry before they fall?

Ye streams for wintry ice more deep,
Ye hanging fields of heavenly blue,
Ye birds that build, ye lambs that leap,
O what has Grief to do with you?