Classic Poem

I

Take , ere the bee hath sipped,
The courtly, maiden-lipped,
And dewy oleander,
And breathe, and dream, and wander.
But ah! take not another,
Lest fragrance fragrance smother.

II

What all your wreathed wine
To what I taste of mine?
See the spilled jewels run,
Red as an autumn sun! —
Each holding warm and clear
The vintage of a year.

III

Stranger, thy passing word
My waiting heart hath stirred;
My life to thee I lend!
This hour thou art my friend,
And could not dearer be
Loved an eternity.