Classic Poem

Why is it grown so suddenly cold at night?
The handles of the chest-of-drawers are bright
And round, and hard, and like a usurer's eyes—
Perhaps it is the moon's cold from the skies?
I wish I had not woken thus alone—
I think she pours a coldness of her own
On each loved leaf upon the garden trees,
So that they never can recover. These
And ruined starry daisies all will say:
‘Queen of the garden, now we go away,
Now we have known the cold of the moon that kills
And though tomorrow all the heaven fills
With golden light until the chill sun's set,
Though for an hour the midges minuet,
Though for an hour we glisten in the sun,
Our day, our day is done.’

I'll sleep again in this warm cave of bed;
Tomorrow all the flowers will be dead.