Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE EXALTS HER BEAUTY AND AVERS THE PERMANENCE OF HIS PASSION

Golden upon the wind her loose hair streaming,
Twisted into a thousand curls was shaken;
And from her eyes, which seldom now awaken
To answer mine, a fiery light was gleaming;
Ah! — was it fancy? — but with wistful seeming,
Her lovely face by pity's tint was taken:
What marvel that my heart, so long Love's beacon,
Should flame out, fueled so by Love's fierce dreaming?
She was no mortal in her stately moving,
But stepped an angel; and her accents glowing
Beyond all human tones passed human heeding,
A spirit of Heaven! — a sun alive was proving
My power of sight... What matters that sun's going?
The slackening bow puts no stop to the bleeding.