Classic Poem

Lone the dove of thought goes lagging
Through the storm, with pinions dragging
O'er an autumn lake the while.
Earth 's aflame, the heart 's a-fever.
Seek, my dove,—alas! thou never
Comest to Oblivion's isle.

Hapless dove, shall one brief minute,
Flaming, fright thee to a swoon?
Sleep thou on my hand, Full soon,
Hushed and hurt, thou 'lt lie within it.