Classic Poem

One time, my lips could always shape a song
On golden loom of Verse, weave Beauty's praise,
The while my Life's craft loitered slow along
The singing current of unshadowed days.

But now I weary grow of goalless strife;
No more within my heart a Love Bird sings,
And when my hand strays o'er the Harp of Life,
It makes but discords on the sounding strings.