Classic Poem

I TURN the last leaf down, and lay
The flaunting rubbish in the grass;
With folded arms across my face
I shut the summer light away.
On him too the old trick to play!
Too dull, too base!

I see again his dream-worn hand
Shaken by my poor praise, his brow
Flushed by the words I scarce knew how
To speak at all, so shadowy grand
He stalked there in Song's lonely land.
Under the vow.

So rare a spirit, and if frail—
Curse thee! what should a spirit be
That ate not, drank not, save for thee?
Flat brothel-jestress, thing of sale,
On his head too to pour the stale