Classic Poem

If thou of Laura hast but truly sung,
Her look sublime, her port of heavenly grace,
Not that I question thou didst truly trace
The love for her, thine inmost soul that wrung;
Was she indeed a Bough, from Eden sprung —
An Angel, clothed in fleshly garments base —
A tender Pilgrim o'er this earth's rough face
Who homeward turned while yet her life was young;
I needs must fear that 'mid the twinkling lights
Which thou, now glorified, hast reached at last,
Thou canst not yet thy soul's desire receive;
For she, meanwhile, hath reached remoter heights,
To spheres more holy still her soul hath passed,
And thou in plaintive strains once more must grieve!