Classic Poem

Since you went away, oh,
I lean on the porch-rail, my face tense.
Nights, no block and pounder sound;
Noontimes, my high gate stays closed.
Within the curtains of my bed, a stream of fireflies;
Out front in the courtyard, a bloom of purple orchids.
Nature's things dry up: they sense the season's changed—
Wild geese arrive: they know a traveler's chill.
Your journey may end at winter's close—
Though spring wears on, I'll wait for your return.