Classic Poem

Oh! weep with me the changing scene,
Torn from thy arms, devoured with spleen.
Instead of those dear eyes, I look
Upon the fire, or else a book:
But oh! how dull must either be
To eyes that have been studying thee!
Unless the poet does express
Something that strikes my tenderness,
I throw the leaves neglected by,
And in my chair supinely lie;
Or to the pen and ink I haste,
And there a world of paper waste.
All I can write, though love is here,
Does much unlike my soul appear.
Angry, the scrawling side I turn,
I write and blot, and write and burn.
Then to the bottle I repair,
The poets tell us ease is there:
But I thy absent hand repine,
Whose sweetness used to zest the wine;
Wine in this sullen moment fails;
I burn my pen, I bite my nails,
Rail at my stars, nay, I accuse
Even my lover, and my Muse.
‘Why did he let me go?’, I cry.
—And, now I think on't, tell me why.
You might have kind excuses made
To one so willing to have stayed:
The night was rainy, and the wind
To all thy softest wishes kind.
For thee and love methought it blew,
As if my parting pains it knew,
As if it was a lover too.
I'm safely shaded from its power,
But I regard its rage no more:
Now let it tempest as it please,
Or move the groves, or fright the seas,
It cannot now alarm my rest,
Unless it reach thy dearer breast.
Oh! hasten to me; let my arms
Protect thee from the wintry storms.
I tremble lest the cold should dare
To pierce thee—let my image, there,
Defend it, if it has a charm,
From these and every other harm.
I want thy bosom to repose
My beating heart, oppressed with woes;
I want thy voice my soul to cheer,
Thy voice is music to my ear;
I want thy dear loved hand to press
My neck, with silent tenderness;
I want thy eyes to make me bright,
And charm this sullen hour of night.
This hour, when pallid ghosts appear,
Oh! could it bring thy shadow here,
I every substance would resign
To clasp thy aerial breast to mine;
Or if, my love, that could not be,
I would turn air to mix with thee.