Classic Poem

The croon of black water over stone,
The cool flow of stars like ripened grain,
Though hearts crumble and rot and bleach as bone
These will remain.

The long pulse of the wind, the indolent laughter
Of aspens gossiping idly on a hill—
These will go their trivial way long after
Your sobs are still.

Tell this black sorrow to your pillow.
Whisper your despair to the shadowy glass.
But never go for sympathy to willow,
Or cloud, or grass.

Cry your lips dumb; you will not stir one leaf.
Not a wind will hearken you, or care.
But in a small room you may live with grief
Elsewhere too great to bear.