Classic Poem

There's a hurt in the heart of the night,
There's an ache where a song should be;
At the core of the dawn is blight —
For you have forgotten me.

Oh, weight of the dragging morn,
When my sorrow lifts its head —
Oh, curse of a day still-born,
With my soul's wound running red!

Oh, hours that are bitten through
With the wormwood of memory,
When my sore heart calls for you,
Though yours has forgotten me!