Classic Poem

There is a plot where all the winds are still,
A hidden garden where no voice is heard,
Only a splashing fountain and the shrill
Sweet clamour of a bird.

The poplars guard like tall, grave sentinels
Its peace inviolate; and in the tower
With careful ritual ring out the bells
The end of each dead hour.

Laburnums, hollyhocks and roses run
By secret paths—but who shall burst the bars?
Oh, who shall see—except the curious sun
And all the peering stars?…

And Thou and Thou, my Love, for whom I keep
My heart a watered garden, all Thine own,
Where flowers my guardian angel tends in sleep,
Bright summer blooms, are grown!

Come, my Belovèd, come—behold, the skies
Are fragrant with the evening scents and dew:
My soul hath sickened for Thy lips and eyes,
And laden is with rue!

Oh, Thou shalt fly with soft wings like a dove's
And hold me fast beyond all fate and fear,
And we 'mid flowers shall tell our flowering loves
Where no one else can hear!