Classic Poem

Lo the gray shafts of unfatigued Apollo
Search the dim chamber where the low lamps flicker:
Soon will the young god's keener arrows follow,
Making all puny mortal lights burn sicker,
Smiting the mists on every pool and hollow.
Brighter the morn grows and my pulse flies quicker,
As gazing on my bride I whisper low,
‘Those darling eyes will open soon, I know.’