Classic Poem

My lad is ever gone from me.
The roads all beckon him away;
And all day long, and every day,
The wide world bids him come and see!
Unto my lad, the Spring we met
Was no more fair than any spring;—
A listless bud, a wayside thing
To strip of petals and forget
At some clear call from out a pine.
My lad, he is no lad of mine:
I think I shall not ever set
My eyes on his, again.—And yet,
My heart like some dull talking-bird
Learns not from sorrow, but must say
Over and over, one poor word
Against the throb of sad or glad;—
Over and over, all the day,