Classic Poem

Could I, without weak words that fret and grieve,
Fashion of singing airs and living light
The invisible fabric that the swallows weave
At sunset in their interlacing flight,
A sheer imperishable ecstasy
To clothe your spirit in viewless singing fire,
Then should I labour to my heart's desire,
Nor fear to dim your spirit's lucency.

But I have only words, words born in stress
And travail, for your spirit's loveliness:
Yet may not my dark syllables in their flight
Through other minds weave out of song and light
The fabric of my dream, that all men see
Your spirit's beauty through eternity?