Classic Poem

(ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA)
When one of the old, little stars doth fall from its place,
  The eye,
Glimpsing aloft must sadden to see that its space
    In the sky
Is darker, lacking a spot of its ancient, shimmering grace,
And sadder, a little, for loss of the glimmer on high.

Very remote, a glitter, a mote far away, is your star,
But its glint being gone from the place where it shone
The night's somewhat grimmer and something is gone
Out of the comforting quiet of things as they are.

    A shock,
A change in the beat of the clock;
And the ultimate change that we fear feels a little less far.