Classic Poem

Cold , bitter cold beneath the wild March moon,
The winter snow lies on my frozen breast;
And o'er my head the cypress branches croon
A sad and ceaseless dirge, and break my rest.

I hear the bell chime in the dark church tower,
The rising wind, a passer's hasty tread;
But no voice wakes the silence, hour by hour,
Among the uncompanionable dead.

Perchance they lie in deep, unconscious calm,
Regretting nothing in the world above;
Alas! for me, it has not lost its charm;
There is no peace where thou art not, my love.

Oh, bid me come to thee and I will rise
From my unquiet couch and steal to thine,
And touch thy cheek and kiss thy sleeping eyes
And clasp thee as of old, till morning shine!

And I will murmur in thy drowsy ears
Sweet utterances of love and olden song,
Till thou shalt half awake in blissful tears,
And cry " My love, why hast thou staid so long? "