Classic Poem

Ah! lovely lady with the stillest eyes;
As calm as Death's; deep as the summer sea;
Just shaded by a downy cloud that lies.
White as a swan, between blue heaven and thee:
Thou lookest backward still, Mnemosyne.

Thy reveries are dear as poets' dreams;
On childhood's innocence thou lov'st to dwell;
On homely pleasures, and the simple themes
And tender tales that youthful mothers tell
To little children for a slumber-spell.

Yet I have known thee when thy mood was black;
When wild Regret had clutched thee, as a prey;
And I have marked thee shudder, looking back,
And turn thy strained and startled eyes away
From some grim, muffled shape of cloudy gray.

Sometimes I meet thee when the night is clear,
For thou art gossip to our Lady Moon,
Who liketh well thy plaintive voice to hear
Chanting low music of an ancient rune
She sang before the worlds were out of tune.

All things are softened through thy filmy veil:
In misty light a lovely landscape lies;
Vistas of 'passing beauty, fading, frail;
Tinted with hues of Youth, and Love's surprise,
And rainbowed with the tear-drops in thine eyes.

I know thou makest many a holy hour
For those who look their lives of patience o'er:
They love thee most who least have feared thy power,
From whom thou dost inherit richest store
Of pleasant days and deeds that are no more.

Oft have I sought thee, pensive Memory, where,
With Melancholy for thy handmaid meek,
Thou dost discourse with such a moving air
That I may only pray when I would speak,
For prayers are strength, though all my words are weak.