Classic Poem

O Eurydice mine, would I could sing
Thy soul from sadness! In thy piteous Hell
Thou sitt'st, poor, hapless, woful one, the spell
Of some dull passion on thee, and the sting
Sinks to thy heart. Thou hast not strength to fling
Thy drooped head up. O love, can this be well?
Is there no hope? Can thy poor soul not tell
Some surcease of thy grief; some better thing?
O Eurydice, listen to the strain
My harp-strings bring to Hell, that woful place
Where thou sitt'st now with thy pale, haunted face;—
Of nearing hope they sing, of rest from pain,
Of sky, and trees, and stars.—Beloved, bear
No more the torment! Eurydice, hear!