Classic Poem

I am weary of mask and of buskin,
I would throw them aside for a time;
But you laugh when I speak of my sorrows, —
They are pretty enough for a rhyme.
But sorrow — the women who know it
Smile not, nor are jesting the while!
You are baffled, like all men, my dearest,
By the simple device of a smile.

I think of a certain fair meadow
Engirdled by trees where birds sing;
And in May gay with white and gold daisies
Flung down like a carpet by Spring;
And in winter still fair, with its hollows
And hillocks enfolded in snow;
Yet that once was a battle-field, dearest,
And its dead, none the less, lie below!