Classic Poem

I made new speech for you—a secret tongue,
Dearest and best of all in book or scroll.
To hear it spoken was to hear it sung—
I copied all of it upon my soul.
There were those leafy letters, wreathed like vines—
Such trellises of words as Sappho spoke;
Heavy as silver flagons of old wines
Some Latin phrases carved by stately folk.
I could not find a sound for leave-takings
Slower, more sorrowful than Spanish is,
And the French names with flower-dusty wings
Flew in and out among the sentences.
So, with my heart a voice made musical,
I went to you, and did not speak at all.