Classic Poem

Ah, let my hand lie warm in thine, the hand that held the pen;
It shall not miss its once-loved task, nor long to work again.
And let me hide my weary eyes against thy sheltering breast;
Let others wear the bays I craved; I know that love is best!

Art's paths were over-sharp for me, and cold its mountain air;
For I am but a woman, dear, and Love's land is so fair!
So half-way up Fame's steep incline I pause and yield my place.
What! dare you ask if I regret? Bend close and read my face!