Classic Poem

All day the spell of that dear play has lain
Upon me; and my thoughts, unceasingly,
Dream round its various happenings and round thee,
Who didst so fascinate my heart and brain.
I see thee standing now as thou didst stand
Last night upon the stage; thy high, sweet face
Uplifted to thy lover's, and the grace
Of thy young figure, circled by his hand,
Gowned in deep red, which seemed sad with thy sorrow:
And round the gown, and o'er the red, there swept
A veil of black, whose gathered meshes crept
Up to thy curving throat, and there did borrow
The clasp of one white hand: while, girlishly-fair;
Waved, over all, thy yellow English hair.