Classic Poem

The ante-room is hushed and still,
The lattice curtained close.
The tempest sweeping round the hill
Awakes not its repose.

And there before him reclined his own Augusta —
her beauty and splendour as mute as a dream — her large
eyes are open but they never move — her cheek ne'er
changes — her robes never wave.
He calls upon her —

AUGUSTA! but the silence round
Could give him no reply
And straightway did that single word
Without an echo die!