Classic Poem

I call on Death, for Life is my distress,
And I myself a load of weariness
Weighing upon myself. Helpless am I;
Dared I to weep, then never would run dry
The fountains of my grief: I cannot speak:
Even the occupation that I seek
Goads me and wearies me. A jungle drear
This world and all its moving crowds appear,
And I the loneliest of all things on Earth,
Yea, lonely in the household of my birth.
Tired am I of my suffering through the years,
Even as mine eyes are wearied of their tears.
Spring comes again and brings the cooling breeze,
And Autumn with the rain among the trees,
Fair Summer with its moonlit nights of gold,
And Winter with its sweet and gentle cold;
These come and go, with morn and even-fall,
How can I tell how I have passed them all?
Well, I have borne them all!

Hope gleamed awhile, but fled unsatisfied,
The flower sprang up. but drooped and fruitless died:
The silver bow of Ede shone above all,
But never came the looked-for Festival:
I saw the splendour of the season wane,
Never the benediction of the rain
Fell on my parched heart: the thunder loud
Pealed from the bosom of the darkened cloud,
But never came the long-desired rain:
I sought the fruit upon the tree in vain,
The thorn smote deep into my heart instead:
Across the desert wastes of sands I sped
Seeing the silver water courses gleam,
But it was all a vision and a dream,
And thirsting in the desert I was left
Lone and bereft.