Classic Poem

Would that your lips desirable,
And elvish mood that with them plays,
Were necromancing here with me
Along the dark woodways.

The wild wood strawberries do swing
Where silence spills and moonlight drips,
Waiting their ghostly visitor
And her immortal lips.

They fold their jewelled fruit in leaves,
Reluctant to be mortal prize:
No matter for the wood's wild things
And all its watching eyes,

I would find wild berries for you,
All through the wood, for your wild lips,
And I would gather them to feed
With wood love, those your lips.

And dip each crimson berry in
Moon's silver light, as this and this
Do swing, and covenant for each
Wild strawberry, a kiss.