Classic Poem

You ask me why, when Hope long since
Has own'd herself but folly,
I still retain this deep-grooved chain
Of cankering melancholy.

And I might say we are not free
Our own fond love to master:
That we confess her nothingness,
Yet cling to Hope the faster.

But Hope's sweet eyes are closed with dust,
Blind to their own " to-morrow " :
And on the heart Time works his part:
And 'tis for that we sorrow.

'Tis not alone the shrine of grief
That his pale hand defaces:
Time's icy breath, a living death,
Love's very grave effaces.

O thrice accurst — O worst than worst —
Past all despair's conceiving,
When 'tis not for the loss we grieve,
But for the loss of grieving!