Classic Poem

Through seas of pain and surging storms of grief,
O sweetheart, we pursue our weary way,
Waiting till on life's hill-tops the new day
Shines, gilding every blossom, every leaf.
O comforter of mine, of helpers chief,
More patient at love's mournful long delay
Than I, — less angered at the cloud-wreaths grey, —
Speak words of hope: the sails of dawn unreef!

Lo! I am weary; weary unto death.
Long is the struggle, and the night is long:
Not yet upon the hills the morning's song
Broods, nor the sweetness of the morning's breath.
Still am I battling 'mid the tides of night:
O sweet star-lady, grant me thy starlight!