Classic Poem

I know the summers that can speak
For all the olive of thy cheek;
I know the gentle lineage rare
That crowns thy head with midnight hair;
But whence — don't send me to the skies! —
The splendor, Nina, of your eyes?

Now, Nina, there's your needle! Knit!
Your lashes drooped a little bit;
I'm writing " letters, " and afraid
Of brilliant cross-lights; lend me shade.
Nay! there's a dimple at your lips,
And there — you dazzle, past eclipse!

Was it of much or little " grace "
To mock these clouds of commonplace
With a whole summer sunset's dyes,
Because you must lift up your eyes?
Sending my missive all amiss,
Turning my " letter " into this!

You couldn't help it! Once, amid
A temple's twilight, it betid
The soft glow of a vestal's light
Slept on the crosslet of a knight,
And wrought — nor, Nina, might it less
Of loyalty and tenderness —
The matchless radiance that lies
Deep in the splendor of your eyes!