Classic Poem

There 's a picture on my wall
Of the hapless, sinful twain, —
Clinging forms that float embraced
Through a mist of fiery rain —
Onward borne in lurid space
By the burning winds that blow.
Oft I fancy in the night
I can hear them whispering low
Each to each the secret dear:
" Hell 's not Hell, since thou art here! "