Classic Poem

—To my love I whisper, and say
Knowest thou why I love thee?—Nay:
Nay, she saith; O tell me again.—

When in her ear the secret I tell,
She smileth with joy incredible—

—Ha! she is vain—O nay—
—Then tell us! Nay, O nay.

—But this is in my heart,
That Love is Nature's perfect art,
And man hath got his fancy hence,
To clothe his thought in forms of sense.

—Fair are thy works, O man, and fair
Thy dreams of soul in garments rare,
—Beautiful past compare,
Yea, godlike when thou hast the skill
To steal a stir of the heavenly thrill:

—But O, have care, have care!
'Tis envious even to dare:
And many a fiend is watching well
To flush thy reed with the fire of hell.