Classic Poem

This tender Psyche-service of thee, sweet,
Brings thee the nearer. Whiter is thy heart,
Purer thy being in its every part:
Towards me thou comest now with bird-swift feet.
Thou hast endured the labour and the heat;
Rest now beneath the shadow of my Art!
No longer, rose, thy straggling tendrils dart
On all sides, searching for some soft retreat.

My Art is unto thee thy God-sent bower
And thou within it art the gracious rose,
Its one presiding ever-present flower.
Lo! Art above thee her green mantle throws:
Wait, — tarry patient for one mortal hour;
Then, ever safe within my arms repose.