Classic Poem

Thridding the little tangled wood that crested
With silver birch the silvery wave-like dune,
A slashing twig from off my finger wrested
The golden ring just as the wintry moon
Plunged in black cloud, and from my clutching hand
It tumbled noiseless in the shadowy sand.

All night in vain with fearful eager fingers
I raked among the sand and rustling leaves:
Dawn came: noon passed: and now the last light lingers.
Along the lake, and still my cold heart grieves
Love's token lost, as through my naked hand
Life seems to trickle coldly as dead sand.