Classic Poem

O soul, the pen point is not sharper than thee! —
That sweeps the memory, earnestly doth toll;
Whereas in bitter joy the essence shows thus clear,
Belost its chime and rang aloud with fear!
While garden and their roses pale
Turn many human, innocently nail
That burst beneath, while he doth walk about
Like winds that singe the heavens, bare the cloud;
Spots of dust, like ruined ashes rolling,
Thaw in a whimpering spell, though holy
From the offspring, in thought dissolved!
What good skims the cover for our nest,
Though early hour swims thy love to rest;
Thus fares the penance of each folly.