Classic Poem

When of thy loves, and happy heavenly dreams
Of early life, O Bard! I strive to read,
Thy foreign utterance a riddle seems,
And hardly can I hold thy thought's bright thread.
When of the maiden's guilt, the mother's woe,
And the dark mystery of death and shame,
Thou speakest — then thy terrible numbers flow
As if the tongue we think in were the same.
Ah wherefore! but because all joy and love
Speak unfamiliar, unknown words to me,
A spirit of wishful wonder they may move,
Dreams of what might — but yet shall never be.
But the sharp cry of pain — the bitter moan
Of trust deceived — the horrible despair
Of hope and love for ever overthrown —
These strains of thine need no interpreter.
Ah! 'tis my native tongue! and howsoe'er
In foreign accents writ, that I did ne'er
Or speak, or hear, a woman's agony
Still utters a familiar voice to me.