Classic Poem

Here do we part, you and the rest to stay
In the red valley where the lotus weaves
Glad pain with sleep; and up the rugged way.
I go alone, and wish I might forget.
And yet—and yet—

The sun is on the upland sheaves,
And all the grass with starry tears is wet.

Work! Work! Something to dull the ache
Of petty friends and little souls—an, vain,
All vain the grief that you and you awake.
Gone is the old unutterable thrill,
and still—and still—

I hear from our the driving wraiths of rain
The brown thrush singing on the upland hill.