Classic Poem

Whether all grace have fail'd I scarce may scan,
Be it of mere mischance, or art's ill sway,
That this-wise, Monday, Tuesday, every day,
Afflicts me, through her means, with bale and ban.
Now are my days but as a painful span;
Nor once " Take heed of dying" did she say.
I thank thee for my life thus cast away,
Thou who hast wearied out a living man.
Yet, oh! my Lord, if I were blest no more
Than thus much, — clothed with thy humility,
To find her for a single hour alone, —
Such perfectness of joy would triumph o'er
This grief wherein I waste, that I should be
As a new image of Love to look upon.