Classic Poem

“Lonely, lonely,” over the hill
Wails the wind at its restless will;
Close to your shoulder my head I lean,
No wind so sharp it can blow between:
(“Only the bitter wind of death;”—
Hear what the whisper saith.)

Swift, surely, the ominous night
Quenches the sunset's coloured light;
In your eyes the star of love is lit,—
No darkest hour can banish it:
(“Only the cold, cold hour of death;”—
Hear what the whisper saith.)

Nay, not the darkest night can part,
Or bitterest wind, true heart from heart;
Hold me close that we hear no more
The taunting voices without the door:
(“Love shall be conqueror over death!”
Hear what the whisper saith.)