Classic Poem

The specialties of that dark hour of grief
On my retentive heart have prest their seal;
Yes! I remember even the spider's wheel,
Which stretch'd and lighten'd on the gusty leaf
Of that wild August morn! The blasts were driven
Across the new-mown fields, fitful and brief,
And toss'd the tresses of the barley-sheaf,
And rode the streaming willow into Heaven:
The features of the tempest, all and each,
I still recall, and shall thy ruthful gaze
Not be remember'd? nor those winning ways
Which brought my soul within thy pity's reach?
I keep the natural impress of the hour,
And shall thy loving kindness have less power?