Classic Poem

After last week's long journey, spring
Rests in the sunshine of the Square.
Out there the leaves rejoice; they bring
Some secret spell I may not share.

I think, I'm fond of being alone
With music and my past. And then
I see tomorrows grey like stone,
Where virtues walk as weary men.

And while the lenten twilight falls
On silent room and hand-propped head,
Within my heart's mysterious walls
The dreamer that was Youth lies dead.