Classic Poem

Would there were music that would come like calm
Into this trouble, some clear, tenuous strain,
As simple and majestic as a psalm
That eased the tragic ancient of his pain.

Oh for a colonnade, far off, withdrawn
Whence I might glimpse, rigid against the foam
Of sunrise, spires commercing with the dawn,
Or some triumphant curvature of dome.

Beautiful things, men make to make the heart
Take heart, come in a dream and are suspect.
Beauty is dying to herself apart.
The gleams of her can only resurrect

A perishing vision, failing, and a cold
Light of departing that we cannot hold.