Classic Poem

Who was it that said Abelard? I heard
Methought, his whispered name. Oh woeful me—
Sad sisters let it henceforth ever be,
A sacred, incommunicable word!
He sleeps in a Paraclete. He is not dead;
Upon my breast still rests his darling head,
In dear remembered visions, all night long.
Ay me, this loveless world is full of wrong,
And I am tired. These cloistered solitudes
Change not my soul! On Abelard it broods!
Still say you, dead? Ah, then it were not well
Much longer to remain. He is my own,
And I will find him—yea, although alone
My wanderings lead me down the slopes of Hell!