Classic Poem

What other form were worthy of your praise
But this lute-voice mocking the centuries
In many a silvery phrase that hallowed is
By love not faltering with length of days?
A lute that I have little worth to raise
And little skill to sound! — Yet not amiss
Your love may find it, since my heart in this
Only one thing for your' heart only says.

These are no perfect blossoms I offer you.
No rose whose crimson cup all longing slakes,
Not moonflowers, sunflowers, flowers bold of hue,
Nor silver lilies mystical with dew —
No more than bluets, blown when April takes
Millions of them to make one meadow blue.