Classic Poem

When will the wind be shriven,
In mercy of penance and pain?
His limbs are cold and driven
With sodden leaves and rain;
His back is bent with sorrow,—
The grey dawn comes to-morrow,
But God has not forgiven,
And the wind weeps all in vain,
But God has not forgiven,
And the grey dawns still remain.

Out of the night, against my face,
The wet leaves fling in agony,
Like shy swift kisses out of space,
The breath of phantom company.

For I am minded to rejoice,
And fashion fair dreams of far-spent days;
I bend to hear her murmuring voice:
“Love, only the shadow of passion stays.”

Ah, but her eyes are all unseen,
And her two lips thin threads of mist,
And I am the ragged wind and lean,
And these are the cold dead leaves I kissed.