Classic Poem

I am not worthy of thy worship, love! —
There are within me hosts of passions yet
Whose angry serried spear-ranks must be met:
Fierce warriors whose keen swords against me move.
Oh, we have talked in many a blossomy grove
Of happiness, — but am I worthy thee?
O love, love, love of mine, — if thou couldst see
My whole grim life, wouldst thou that life approve?

Oh, thou art white, and thou wouldst shrink away!
The whitest thing about me is the red:
Thy wings are golden, — mine are gaunt and grey;
Sins black and endless beat about my head
With flapping plumes and urgent lips that say,
" Dark would thy soul be, had that soul not bled. "