Classic Poem

WHEREIN APPROACHING THE PLACE OF LAURA ON A JOURNEY, HE IS AGAIN CONSUMED, AGAIN INFLAMED

The soft wind that sets hills in softer blue
And rouses every bud that diadems
The valley — I know well: it gave me gems
Of worship, but it crowned with red thorns too:
My sick soul to relieve, I cry adieu
To those dear haunts, the liquid l's and m's
Of Tuscan nightingales on Tuscan stems,
And seek the sun to burst my darkness through.
That sun whose virtue is so strong, so sweet
Love drives me headlong to its light again
Which then so dazzles, there is no retreat:
Wings, wings I crave! — wings only! arms are vain:
Heaven by this fire condemns me to defeat
Which, near or far, devours with burning rain.