Classic Poem

Is there a sweeter thing than when one feels
The breast of Love brought closely to one's own,
So that each sigh or softly-murmured moan
Is caught and changed to laughter's silver peals?
Yea, this is sweeter — that the world conceals
No love for ever, though she flee away
Through woods and endless forests fierce and grey;
Beware! the avenging Love is at thine heels.

In some sequestered glade of that wild wood
The pale pursuer is upon thee, sweet;
Love's angered advent thou shalt not elude, —
Turn rather, soft-eyed, that approach to meet!
He treadeth after thee with footstep rude,
And pauseth not for poisonous swamps, or heat.