Classic Poem

W HERE'ER I wander near or far
I see that winsome face;
By land or sea, by ship or car, —
It haunts me every place.

And though I fly to solitude
And be an anchoret,
The lovely vision will intrude
And smile upon me yet.

Like good Saint Anthony, in shame
I close my fevered eyes;
Her burning looks my heart inflame,
And bid wild passion rise.

Yet never in my life have I
Wrought her or weal or woe, —
Then, lovely Lydia P-nkh-m, why
Dost thou pursue me so?