Classic Poem

The sunlight shall not easily seem fair
To you again,
Knowing the hand that once amid your hair
Could stray so maddeningly,
Now listlessly
Is beaten into mire by summer rain.

The spirit has its sanctities in death—
But the bright clay
Knows naught of recompense. And the swift breath
That in some darkened place
Once swept your face—
What shall sublime that memory away?

He died amid the thunders of great war;
His glory cries
Even now across the lands; perhaps his star
Will shine forever …
But for you, never
His wild white body and his thirsting eyes.