Classic Poem

Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:

Come, and you shall tell me, dearest,
 Are you not a thing of dreams,
Such as, when the Summer's clearest,
 From the poet's fancy streams?

Ah, but no—a mien so mild, dear,
 Such a mouth and eyes that wait;
Such a loving, lovely child, dear,
 Not a poet could create.

Basilisks whose glances freeze or
 Hippogriffs and dragons dire;
Horrid, fabled things like these are
 Fashioned in the poet's fire.

But yourself and your pretenses,
 And those eyes that could not hate,—
And those false and fervent glances
 Not a poet could create.