Classic Poem

What do they see, those eyes; what image now
Looms like a picture in their dark'ning cells?
Approach thou, softly, leave whatever dross
And gilded currency this monstrous world
Hath taught thy heart the use of; drop the mask
Which life's deceit hath made thee wear and bend
Thy spirit now in that pure nakedness
In which God clothed thee first—for life hath forms
That are more dread to look upon than death.
That prince of courtiers, Death, averts his face
Too conscious that his sadness seems to smile
Before this pale, still presence; even he
Can add to this no touch—unkindness here
Hath wrought a masterpiece. Death coming now
Might find Life mocking with her finer skill.

Let not poor pity move thy silence here;
All people pity much all broken hearts.
Except, indeed, hearts broken by themselves.

The form is motionless. How painfully
The hopeless head rests on the weary hands;
Poor hands, in sorrow wedded, palm to palm,
With helpless fingers twining white and cold,
In which the heart's grief speaketh bitterly.
What do they see, those eyes; what image now
Looms like a picture in their dark'ning cells?
Look now above the moveless head and out
Upon the quiet landscape reaching far,
Framed by the open window, what is there
To hold a thousand times those steadfast eyes
And lure the sad soul to forgetfulness?

The pine tree's top, the maple's drooping limbs,
The wide-spread elm which shades the garden wall,
A little slope of green, a winding brook,
A weeping willow and the road beyond,
That wanders onward dimly to the town;
The roofs, the spires, the slender lines of smoke
That rise against the fading purple hills,
And, over all, the sky in which the day
Droops like a tired lid made red with tears
While evening closeth in dejectedly,
As though sweet nature had lain down to rest
Upon the earth's round bosom with a sigh.

This is the scene and it is imaged here
In each clear orb, drawn with such wondrous care
That baffled sense recoils and blindly leaves
The strained imagination shrunk with awe,
And it is imaged in the mournful drop
Which hangs full rounded on the wasted cheek,
Perceiving not the wonder which it holds;
So is the listless eye from which it fell.

What do they see, those eyes; what image lives
Shut up forever in their prison walls?
There is a face behind the wretched bars,
The cold, enduring cruel iron bars,
Which death will leave unshaken, riveted
By merciless, relentless memory,
Across the vision's door. A soul-seen face,
A lost one loved, a loved one lost, no more.

The old, old courtier comes, the sad heart smiles
To see his office done so bashfully.