Classic Poem

O Peace, O Dove, O shape of the Holy Ghost,
I would not vex thee with too subtle thought,
Put thee in fear by hopes, send thee to coast
Regions unknown for what I dearest sought.
To rough delights I would not open course,
Nor thy composure fray with vague desire,
Nor aspiration hold that did thee force,
Nor move a step that I could not retire.

Nay, nay, I pray thee, close thy startled eye,
Compose again thy self-stirred plumes, nor aim
At other station, in timidity
Of fancied plots, which here I all disclaim
Well, fly then! for perchance from heavenward flight
Gentler on me thou mayst again alight.