Classic Poem

In the leafless sycamore
Lo! a winter nest.
Round it all the ceaseless roar
Of the storm's unrest.
Here love's palace once was seen
Swinging to the breeze,
Roofed and guarded by the green,
Full of melodies.
Here the sunset loved to rest,
Smiling on the thrush's nest.

In yon London attic room
Once a painter wrought;
All our dense November gloom
Darkened not his thought.
Woman's love was here as well;
Woman's loving eyes
Met the painter's when they fell
From the pictured skies.
Love forsook his fiery quest,
Pausing at the painter's nest.

Both are changed alike to-day.
When the thrushes flew,
Sorrow turned the green leaves grey,
Robbed the heaven of blue.
Painter, sweetheart, both are dead,
But the room remains,
And an easel smeared with red, —
Dusty window panes.
Death destroys with equal zest
Painter's bower, or thrush's nest.