Classic Poem

Because this curse is on the dawn, to yield
her secrecy distill'd of nuptial tears,
and day dismantles, casual, nor reveres
whate'er august our brooding dream'd reveal'd;

because that night to whom we next appeal'd,
no more gestation of inviolate spheres,
shameless, is mimic of the day, nor fears
the scant occurrence of her stars repeal'd:

Therefore, if never in some awful heart
a gather'd peace, impregnable, apart,
cherish us in that shrine of steadfast fire,

be these alone our care, excluding hence
some form undesecrate of all desire,
the wings of silence, adamantine, dense.