Classic Poem

In that dim monument where Tybalt lies
I would that we lay sleeping side by side,
And that the loveliness that never dies
There in our silent effigies had died.
For now your living beauty too much stirs
Across my sight, and I grow dumb with tears;
And I am homesick for old sepulchres
Now that your lips wake the forgotten years.
Love that is perfect comes thus to the land
Within whose borders only death can be.
Wherefore I say, hold out to me your hand
And set me free, set me forever free,
And come, with terrible silence in your eyes,
To that dim monument where Tybalt lies.