Classic Poem

Love hath his poppy-wreath,
—Not Night alone.
I laid my head beneath
—Love's lilied throne:
Then to my sleep he brought
—This anodyne—
The flower of many a thought
—And fancy fine:
A form, a face, no more;
—Fairer than truth;
A dream from death's pale shore;
—The soul of youth:
A dream so dear, so deep,
—All dreams above,
That still I pray to sleep—
—Bring Love back, Love!