Classic Poem

If I should force the sentries of her lips,
What should it profit me, to shock her soul?
Or see young Faith in pitiful eclipse,
Or watch her don Abasement's leaden stole?

If I should bid her tell me all her love,
Bare all the rosy secret of her heart;
What gain, to see her spoil herself thereof?
For her what gain, to see her love depart?

Her lovely mystery is her loveliness,
And her sweet reticence her seal of price;
For what she loveth darkly that she is—
Priestess, communicant, and sacrifice

In her own mould she fashions Love, and he
Scarce knows himself, vested so tenderly.