Classic Poem

I would possess you with that certitude
Which is the high prerogative of Death—
Subdue to one fixed mood your many a mood,
Catch in one song your many a hurrying breath,
Make of your dear diversity such a whole
So welded that you never might again
Retrieve your rainbow brokenness of soul,
But must my white eternal dawn remain.
And I would do such violence to you, dear,
As only Death, corrupting Death, can do:
Bury your body, to have you always near,
And stop your heart, to keep it ever true,
And hide you in such darkness of embrace
That none, not even I, could see your face.