Classic Poem

I know not what is in the well, mother!
If it were the soul!
Last night I went to the abandoned garden:
I entered on the silent
paths now blind with briers,
and I was weary,
more than with the way,
with weariness of soul!

So to the margin of the well I came
where I was wont to sing,
wont to sing joyful songs,
and I stooped to its waters.
Black waters, mother!
Fearful to look upon.
I know not what is in their depths:
they reflect no more, as once, limpid,
radiance of moon or stars'
celestial tears.
For over them the lichen has drawn
its wanton lamentable webs.
I know not what is in the well, mother!
If it were the soul. . .!