Classic Poem

Three thousand years! And still your song
Beats in each word I write.
The empty dusk, these yearning hands,
Stars, and the wind in foreign lands,
A fluttering step on opal sands,
Deep eyes that hold the night;

All yours! Noon adds no dream to dawn,
Nor soothes the age-old ache;
And yet I hope that first spring day,
Three thousand weary years away,
My sister need not know, nor say,
That hearts will break.