Classic Poem

Religion is of sex, love sacramental,
So say the physiologists of love.
Then is not Literature testamental
Born of the soiled and unangelic dove?
Boccacció, gallant of light Maria!
In thy amour Italian language sprang
More than from Dante's stately Jeremiah
Or Petrarch's lute that had the proper twang;
Thy look upon King Robert's daughter, mated,
Thy tales blushed into progeny impure,
The tongues of Europe were articulated
And stolen kisses started Literature.
Out of the ages black and castellated,
There climbed the lawless and luxuriant vine,
And Christian lore, when love was satiated,
Told legends of the Heavens concubine.
Monks shrinking from the tender imitation,
Sang in the chorus of the passion-blest,
And in the hives of Romanesque creation
Returned the Isis-bee of human rest.
So, Europe's Letters broke the dungeon portal;
Love's spasms set all tongues to twittering!
Love, only Love, can feed the life immortal!
When love is rested angels cannot sing.