Classic Poem

She loved me, as she read my books,
And wished to see my face;
Grey was my beard, and dark my looks;
They lost me not her grace.

O gentle heart, O noble brow,
Full rightly didst thou see;
For this poor body, failing now,
Is but my jail, not me.

Those eyes of thine found hope, and youth,
And vigour in my page;
And saw me better there in truth,
Than through the mists of age.