Classic Poem

With other women I beheld my love;--
Not that the rest were women to mine eyes,
Who only as her shadows seemed to move.

I do not praise her more than with the truth,
Nor blame I these if it be rightly read.

But while I speak, a thought I may not soothe
Says to my senses: "Soon shall ye be dead,
If for my sake your tears ye will not shed.'

And then the eyes yield passage, at that thought,
To the heart's weeping, which forgets her not.