Classic Poem

The summer stars my true love knows,
She softly spake their names to me
When last I saw her, and there rose
New hope of blessedness to be.

Now, as alone by night I fare,
Not desolate I turn to these,
My orbed jewel-beads of prayer,
My rosary of Pleiades.

I tell them o'er from East to West;
Unto each flashing one I pray
That she, the dearest, steadiest,
May star-like guide my darkling way.