Classic Poem

The dull world clamors at my feet,
And asks my hand and helping sweet,
And wonders when the time shall be
I 'll leave off dreaming dreams of thee.
It blames me coining soul and time,
And sending minted bits of rhyme —
A-wooing of thee still.

Shall I make answer? This it is:
I camp beneath thy galaxies
Of starry thoughts and shining deeds;
And seeing new ones, I must needs
Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear,
Though thou art nearer, I am near —
A-wooing of thee still.

I feel thy heart beat next mine own;
Its music hath a richer tone;
I rediscover in thine eyes
A balmier, dewier paradise.
I 'm sure thou art a rarer girl —
And so I seek thee, finest pearl,
A-wooing of thee still.

With blood of roses on thy lips —
Canst doubt my trembling? — something slips
Between thy loveliness and me —
So commonplace, so fond of thee.
Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where
That last one stopped thy lover's prayer —
A-wooing of thee still.

When new light falls upon thy face
My gladdened soul discerns some trace
Of God, or angel never seen
In other days of shade and sheen;
Ne'er may such rapture die, or less
Than joy like this my heart confess —
A-wooing of thee still.

Go thou, O soul of beauty, go
Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow;
Mayhap in following thou shalt see
Me worthier of thy love and thee.
Thou wouldst not have me satisfied
Until thou lov'st me — none beside —
A-wooing of thee still.

This was a song of years ago,
Of spring! Now drifting flowers of snow
Bloom on the window-sills as white
As gray-beard looking through love's light,
And holding blue-veined hands the while.
He finds her last — the sweetest smile —
A-wooing of her still.