Classic Poem

Let it content thee that I call thee dear—
Thou'rt wise and great, and others name thee so.
From me, what gentler tribute wouldst thou know
Than the slight hand, upon thy shoulder laid,
And the full heart, high throbbing, not afraid.

No, not afraid—of manly stature thou,
Of power compact, and temper fervor-tried,—
Yet I, a weakling, in thine armour hide,
Or, sick beyond the medicine of Art,
Hang on the healthful pulses of thine heart.

In waking dreams I see thine outstretched arms
That conquer night and distance for my sake,
Like the brave swimmer who was wont to break
The crystals of the deep in shivering light,
To bless his Ladye with his radiant sight.

There is a sense in which I call thee mine—
Not as possession runs in Youth's hot blood;
But in the helpful, self-renunciant mood
Of Aspiration, daring, hand in hand,
Tasks that in mystical conjunction stand.

Have I not been too thoughtlessly surprised
Into this mood, so near akin to loving?
I hold myself to vexed and fond reproving;
Saying, wert thou then so eager to impart,
Thou couldst not hide one secret in thy heart?

There is a dead, immortal maiden speaks
Responsive, from the legendary tomb
That treasures, incorrupt, her bridal bloom:
“If I could wish back the advantage ta'en,
'Twere to be kind, and give it him again.”