Classic Poem

Her, my own sad love divine,
Did I pierce as with a knife,
Stabbed with words that seemed not mine
Her more dear to me than life.

And she raised, she raised her head,
Slow that smile, pale to the brow:
" Lovely songs when I am dead
You will make for me; but how
Shall I hear them then? " she said,
" Make them now, O make them now! "