Classic Poem

Believe me, or believe me not,
At other shrine I ne'er could bow;
The world itself might be forgot —
But never thou — oh, never thou!
Though absent, I recall'd thy charms;
And wished — as lovers when they part —
I'd, like the vine, a thousand arms,
To clasp thee — hold thee — to my heart.

There's not a pulse within my breast
But thrills and trembles at thy touch;
Forget? — oh, no! the fear is lest
My soul may love thee overmuch!
Thy very name each feeling warms;
And oft, though vain, the wish will start,
That, vine-like, I'd a thousand arms
To clasp thee ever to my heart!