Classic Poem

Nor have I ceased to wonder at those eyes,
Nor have they lost their power to make me tremble;
My sweet love-shivering I cannot dissemble,
Nor can I meet them yet without surprise.
Most wonderful! were all the thoughts that rise
Within me to be told with facile fingers,
There'd still remain some loiterer that lingers,
A fancy that eludes, a form that flies.

Had I the sacred lyres full softly strung
Of all the poets who have touched the ages,
Those lyres would not suffice to get it sung;
To tell the beauty which my soul engages, —
To tell the torments which my heart have wrung, —
Though I should rustle through ten thousand pages.