Classic Poem

A strange new youth is on me: not of song
Nor fiery wine, nor woman's kisses dim
But of the long night's strife I strove with him
Whose face is secret and whose hands are strong.

There is a joy too keen for common thought
This: that whoe're has slowly scaled and spelled
Cycles of starry suffering: may be held,
Worth, at last to learn that he is naught.

Now and for one great moment, not in me
Nor any crown I hope for, I rejoice
But in a meadow-game of girls and boys
Some sunset in the centuries to be.