Classic Poem

Thou shalt tell me now, my sweeting;
Art thou not indeed the dream
Which, when summer nights are fleeting,
Through the poet's brain doth stream?

No—a mouth so sweet with passion,
Eyes so full of magic light,
Such a darling child to fashion
Is beyond the poet's might.

Vampires, basilisks malicious,
Dragon-brood and monsters dire,
All such fabled beasts pernicious,
These create the poet's fire.

But thyself, thy freaks and fancies,
And thy face so tender-bright,
And thy truthful, treacherous glances,
Are beyond the poet's might.