Classic Poem

As the slow weary life-hours stroll along
And I find nought of gladness, nought of rest,
And win small pleasure from white softest breast,
And smaller pleasure from the summer throng
Of flowers whose early scent was sweet and strong,—
I yearn the more to be again caressed
By thee, at whose voice once my weary quest
Was ended—dead at whose feet fell each wrong!

The longer that the past behind us grows,
The more we need each other. Life turns pale,
And withering petals cluster on each rose,
And through gold beech-leaves sounds the wind's wild wail,
And what of pain may be in front who knows?
Oh, stand thou stedfast by me. Never fail!