Classic Poem

A lover is a slender, glowing urn
On beauty's shrine, his heart is incense sweet,
Which with his eye-lit torch young love doth burn;
Then from its ardor cloudy ringlets fleet,
That we call sighs, and they with perfume turn
Upwards, his mistress' whisperings to meet.
The breezy whispers and the sighs embrace,
Like pink-winged clouds mixing above the hill,
And from their lovely toyings spring a race
Of tears, which saunter down in cheek-banked rill,
Silvering with sparkling coil the fair one's face;
Twin dewdrops which her startled senses spill
From violet's eyes, that hide their tender hue,
Deep-caverned in a fringed lake of blue.