Classic Poem

The two young gracious forms are much alike,
Though of his mien more earnest and more grave—
More proud and noble, I had almost said—
The one is than that other, in whose arms
I lay so closely clasped. How soft and kind,
How exquisitely lovely was his smile,
How sweet and full of rapture was his gaze!
It may be that the poppy wreath he wore,
Touching my forehead with its drowsy petals,
With its mysterious fragrance chased away
All sorrow from my soul.—But brief, alas!
Is such assuagement. I shall not be well
Until his torch the other shall have lowered:
The brother that so grave is and so pale—
For Sleep is good, but Death is better—best
Indeed were never to be born at all.