Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE PERCEIVES THE WISDOM OF HER APPARENT INDIFFERENCE IN THE PAST

My soul of flame (more than the loveliest
Lovely, O more than ever generous Heaven
Bestowed!) alas, has left me here bereaven
For golden precincts and the star of rest!
Meseems I now but wake: and for the best
I see she barred my passion, kept it even,
As, with her gentle coldness she would leaven
The fiery tumult roaring in my breast.
For such shrewd caution I press gratitude
Upon her that with her so sweet disdain
She curbed my blood and checked the mortal feud.
O delicate dear maneuver! O rich gain!
I with my verse, she with her eyes obtain
Glory in her as she in me high good.