Classic Poem

The dull day darkens to its close. The sheen
Of a myriad gas-jets lights the squalid night.
There is no joy, it seems, but what hath been:
There is nought left but semblance of delight.
Nay, is it so? Down this long darkling way
What surety is there for the hungry heart,
What vistas of white peace, rapt holiday
Of the tired soul forlorn, thus kept apart?
Oh, hearken, hearken, love! I cannot wait:
Drear is the night without, the night within
I am so tired, so tired, so baffled of our fate,
The very sport it seems of our sweet sin
Oh, open, open now, and bid me stay,
Who almost am too tired, too weak, to pray.