Classic Poem

I pour in the mould of rhyme
All that my heart would hold:
The transient light on the tower,
The moat in its wintry gold,
Sunlight, and a passing shower,
The gleam of your garments' fold
That baffles the eye as you pass,
Formless and lovely things
Like speech that breaks in a laugh;
To leave them a shape with wings,
And Time but a cenotaph.
I heat them with more than heat,
Because they must glow in the cold;
I puddle the white-hot mass,
And praying with words retold,
To temper Beauty from Time,
I pour them into the mould.