Classic Poem

I.

If I can love thee with supreme devotion,
Wilt thou love me,
And mingle with my heart's wild throbbing ocean
Thy silver glee?

II.

Lo! love is ne'er content. Love longeth ever
Itself to bring.
Love's one despair is this—that it can never
Its whole soul fling

III.

Down at the loved one's feet. How small and grievous
The gifts we make!
Slight piteous wreaths Time's grudging slow hands weave us,
And these we take.

IV.

And crown the souls we love. But it our power
And will were one,
Each star our hands would bring, and every flower,
And every sun.