Classic Poem

My life is hid with Beatrice in God, —
And hidden with her in all things sweet as well;
In every flower whereon her footstep fell,
Each rose rich-blushing on the sunny sod.
She, being sweet, can clothe my soul with sweetness
And subtle mystic power too fair to tell,
And all poetic passionate completeness;
She, being glad, can lift from sorrow's hell.

My life is hid with Beatrice in pleasure, —
My life is hid with her beyond the sky:
My fair delight, my love, my sweet-winged treasure,
The utter gift of God, she is; and I
With tender worship passing tenderest measure
In music thus to Music's self reply.