Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE IS AT THE MERCY OF HER MOODS

If thus the warm look of my Lady wound,
If in her sprightly speech such perils spring,
If, when she parts her lips to smile or sing,
Love can my senses and my soul confound —
Alas! what refuge if those eyes were bound
By fault or fate, locked to all pitying?
Those eyes to which my life, my fortunes cling,
Shut off from mercy and in darkness drowned?
And if my spirit trembles and grows cold
Whenever shadows sweep their moody plumes
Across her forehead, such a fear is old:
Woman by nature deals us fickle dooms —
One passion her proud heart can never hold,
That in Love's house wanders through many rooms.