Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE FINDS SOME CONSOLATION IN THE HOPES OF HER SYMPATHY

High time it was to find an armistice
From so much war by peace or truce — and both
Were imminent when Death who, nothing loath,
Levels all things, loomed up like Nemesis;
And as a cloud melts in a windy kiss,
So she, whose dear eyes guided my soul's growth,
To whom my mind has pledged eternal troth,
Forsook the Valley for the Precipice.
If only she had stayed, as I grew old,
Her tone had also changed, and no distrust
Would have obscured the love I should have told:
With what frank foolish sighs I should have thrust
The grief before her which she must behold
From heaven — this grief that drenches her dear dust!