Classic Poem

O florentine, about whose brows the bay,
Despite the envious years, twines green and fair,
How oft, in sorrow more than I can bear,
Mine eyes o'erbrimmed, I put thy book away!
Yet, somber poet, when I read to-day
Thy tale of Rimini's unhappy pair,
And saw them wind-whirled in the picture there
Drawn by the matchless pencil of Doré,
I dropped the book and gave a gladsome cry,
As when one feels within his quickened breast
Some new joy's revelation come to dwell.
Oh, Love triumphant! They go drifting by
In close embrace, with hearts together pressed,
Having each other, and so not in hell.