Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE IS ENVIOUS OF THE WIND IN HER HAIR, THE WATER THAT RUNS TOWARD HER

Breeze that with laughter moving, dancing, weaving,
Loosens and disarranges those crisp tresses,
Clouding her breast in golden wildernesses,
Only to twist new coils to new conceiving,
You play about those eyes, clinging and cleaving —
Those eyes whose pointed flames this heart confesses —
This heart that, like a fox the loud pack presses,
Stumbles over its shadow with wild heaving.
Methinks she's found — but no, the fancy cheats me!
Methinks she's seen — but no, Love binds and blinds me!
Methinks she's near — but the truth now defeats me!
Go, happy gust, with Laura live who binds me!
Go, happy stream, till Death from Love unwinds me,
Tell her what in your mirror never meets me!