Classic Poem

Can it be true?—Or did I dream we stood
In that gaunt, dreary room,—we two alone?
Till your locked lips moved, and I heard a moan,
Half-stifled: “Ah, but life is poor and pale;
Something, I know not what, I need, or fail
To bear it onward to its bitter end.”

And this from you, who never will unbend
That head's straight carriage? meet with level brow,
And steady unmoved eye the world's low bow?
Fulfil, with quiet lip and pliant hands,
The duties one and all, the world demands
Shall be fulfilled, without a question why?

So rich? so dutiful? and yet this cry?
And the calm face turned haggard, pale and set?
Hast thou warm life within thy bosom yet?
Doth something clamor for a wider range?
Long hast thou served, friend. Canst thou hope to change?
To find another Lord?—Even now?—So late?—