Classic Poem

You strive and strive to read my thought.
I say and say, you will repent.
Foolhardy Soul, come, then, and read,
Since thus you crave your own torment.
Come, see this room far down a street,
Where never trod your hurrying feet!

Come, see this curtained, cushioned room,
All bathed in amorous crimson light;
Within, the roses die of warmth,
Without is chill of bitter night;
The blur of sound from city street
But makes the silence doubly sweet.

And see me listening for a step—
Oh, I am tired. Nay, see no more,
Nor listen to the hasting feet
Come down the echoing corridor.
No further, though your prayers besought
To follow to the end my thought!

Oh, I am tired. So hold me close,
My lips against your suffering face.
And keep my soul here with your eyes,
Lest it should travel back through space,
Leaving my body on your breast,—
A bird, that wants its last year's nest!