Classic Poem

The valley of the winding water
Wears the same light it wore of old.
Still o'er the purple peaks the portals
Of distance and desire unfold.

Still break the fields of opening June
To emerald in their ancient way.
The sapphire of the summer heaven
Is infinite, as yesterday.

My eyes are on the greening earth,
The exultant bobolinks wild [a-wing.]
And yet, of all this kindly gladness,
My heart beholds not anything.

For in a still room far away,
With mourners round her silent head,
Blind to the quenchless tears, the anguish —
I see, to-day, a woman dead.