Classic Poem

AND now I go with the departing sun:
My day is dead and all my work is done.
No more for me the pleasant moon shall rise
To show the splendour in my dear one's eyes;
No more the stars shall see us meet; we part
Without a hope, or hope of hope, at heart;
For Love lies dead, and at his altar, lo,
Stands in his room, self-crowned and crested,–Woe!