Classic Poem

I feel it. But perhaps thy keener mind,
Attuned to subtler overtones, more remote
Wide-gleaned associations — having by rote
So much I, painful-struggling, toilsome find —
May slip the sweet fruit from its during rind
And share the pleasant pulp with me; my throat
Delights in that ripe juice; my blood doth float
At ease for that sooth medicine of Ind.
I take it whole as vended. Thou, for both,
Mayest pare with Reason; or, contented be
Merely to rest here outside Logic's door
And buy of the brown dealers, nothing loath
To accept — as I — this fruit of Ancientry,
Since when God willed our Love forevermore!