Classic Poem

This girl borrowed no dim light of a star
Nor ever night held her in a dark mesh,
A slim bloom she stood of the first larkspur,
A wind of spring fluttered in her white flesh.

It was not only a surety of eyes,
Of lips, — nor the crisp music in her feet...
A muted legend of summer-drunken skies
Rumored from her, tremulously complete.

Wherefore we, who expend the thoughtless race
Of youth for a little while nor seem to care,
Will take her Image to a secret place,
Blind in a gentle tempest of gold hair.