Classic Poem

I have often a vision of your face,
Seen through the crossing branches of young trees.
Your face, as a white, flowing water,
At a little distance, beyond the reeds of a shallow shore.
Ironical, my lady, that Spring, the barb and whet-stone of my love,
Should net you from me in leaves and whisperings!
Yet I would not lose even this,
Although the sight and leashing tease me to madness.