Classic Poem

I see thee, Desdemona, pale and cold
As the pluck'd lily that uncared for dies,
Thy lips the seat of silence, and thine eyes
Deserted shrines of chastity; behold,
Their lamp is quenched, their oracles untold;
Calm is thy bosom, which no more shall rise
And fall with love's sweet rapture or sad sighs,
And thy hands clasp'd in prayer shall ne'er unfold
Silent and still; yet in that silence speaks
A voice more eloquent than passion's tongue,
The mute reproach upon thy innocent face,
Which chases from his breast who did thee wron
The spectre of blind wrath, and in his place
Despair, for all thy sorrows vengeance wreaks.