Classic Poem

As some proud plant, torn up by frequent blows
Of biting spade or by the wind uprooted,
Whirls wide its green and lofty leaves unfruited,
Its roots all naked in the sunlight shows:
So Love for my despair another chose,
On whom for me the Muse a subject suited
Twists and contrives, heart's capture undisputed,
As on some trunk or wall the ivy grows.
That living laurel — where my tall thoughts nested,
Where sighed in sounds of fire my fervent grief,
Yet never moved a sympathetic leaf —
To heaven translated, in my soul arrested,
The roots remained, whence on my lovely thief
I call unheard, unheeded, unattested.