Classic Poem

Her ear to all the litanies
Of brooks and whispering leaves alive,
Pure as the violet-laden breeze,
Dolores hath no sin to shrive.

By fawns she's welcomed in the fields;
In groves by birds with vying throats,
To swains or lords no heed she yields,
But in sweet peace serenely floats;

Till in the twilight hour she hears
A voice that wakes her sleeping heart,
Now breathing tones that melt to tears,
Now blasts at which her pulses start.

Sphinx-like her face, while tender fires
Soften the glaciers of her breast,
And pleasing fears and new desires
Like fairy voices thrill her rest.

Her ear thenceforth his trumpet is;
Her soul a lyre within his hands;
Her eyes sees only light in his
Who twines her fate with silken strands.