Classic Poem

O PLUCK the blossom in its crimson prime,
Ere yet one tender hue has passed away!
So shall it never know the winter time,
Sere blight of frost, or livid, slow decay.
While now thou fold'st me to thy fluttering breast,
In the sweet tremor of thy love and shame,
And like a stock-dove cooing on its nest,
Thou murmurest low the accents of my name;
While now the sense of laboring time is gone —
Swooned in the sea, lost, buried anywhere —
While all I heed of heaven or world alone,
Lies in thine arms, pavilioned by thy hair,
O would that thou couldst kiss away my breath,
And love sink down deliciously to death.