Classic Poem

For sake of wind out of the south,
For sake of all the lean birds lost
In rhythm of their own long flying,
And for the sake of your hurt mouth
Closed forever on its crying,
Let your heart be crossed.

If you will lift a hand to make
A double motion, quick like breath,
Over your heart's uneven throbbing,
You will have done a thing for sake
Of that for which there is no sobbing,
Nor any hush of death.

Fearing the dazzle in your eyes,
Moments that wear you thin as moon
And make you exquisite with sighing,
Lay on your heart this light device,
Lest for that which knows no dying
You be dead too soon.