poetry form

storm
death's nobility again
our pleasant moments fly
though love repine, and reason chafe
world that changes under my hand
now while my lips are living
over the river, on the hill
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
in the cloud-gray mornings
a look is but a ray
hang no wreath
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
if i should die, think only this of me
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes