Classic Poem

Loveland, alas, has locusts,
Pestilence and pain,
Storms that lay the lilies,
Wind and rain.

Marshes without a moon,
Where black Death hangs and hovers,
Forests where bleach the bones
Of poor blind lovers.

Nay, nay, the lilies in loveland
Never wither and die;
And locusts have never darkened
Its azure sky.

These were not bones of lovers
In yon dark dell:
Fool, you had lost your way;
And that was—hell.