Classic Poem

Forth to the woods I bent my way
To delve a grave for Grief,
As, banner of the brighter day,
Spring waved her silken leaf.

But not on bank, or in the brake,
Where sunlight fell, or shade,
Found I who would my sorrow take,
Or where she might be laid.

Now garbs of Spring make Winter's mirth
As fast the sere leaves flee,
And Grief hath room on all the earth;
Yet dwells she still with me.