Classic Poem

Her image, who enslaves my mind,
Urge me no longer to discover;
Fain would I sing, but ah! I find,
The Bard can ill express the Lover.

Yet trust me he whose happier skill,
For terms could ransack earth, air, ocean;
Might shew, perhaps, more wit at will,
But less of genuine emotion.

Though Art the florid phrase deny,
Yet Truth can never want expression,
For that best language of the eye,
Is still in her's, and Love's possession.