Classic Poem

Godlike the mortal seems to me
Nay greater than divinity
Who sits by thee and all the while
Can hear thy pleasant laugh and see thy smile!
From me such vision steals my soul away
My tongue is paisied, — I have naught to say
A subtile flame
Runs through each fibre of my joined frame,
My ears are ringing and my sight grows dim
Cold drops of sweat bedew each trembling limb
My face grows white and every laboring breath
Seems like the gasping harbinger of death.