Classic Poem

Glimmering dusk above the moist plough and the
Silence of trees' heaviness under low grey sky
Are some comfort for the mind gone soft in lethargy;
White road dark with pools, but growing soon to dry;
But the mind complains " This indeed is beauty enough
And comfort, but itself not enough cure for sorrows,
Nor equal weight for good things and fine stuff
Of thought snatched ruthlessly by thieves best under harrows".
But the soul would not be denied; comfort from the night
Gathered, the mind unwilling, hope past all thought of matters
Of right anger — and the body only spoke of its plight
That a kind law makes dust of at last and scatters.
No notice the soul took — it desired God with all friendly might.
The leaves, not sodden, moved on trees with winter patters.