Classic Poem

When the mad tempest of the blood has died
And sleep comes on, still I am half aware
Of the long sloping music of your side,
And windy light is round me with your hair.
I move through dusks between the day and night
Where night and day and vision intertwine;
The breast of Her who was the gods' delight
Touches a cheek I vaguely know is mine.
Doubt and believing mingle while there stirs
Your hand that wakens mine out of its dream;
Hope knows not what is hers, nor Memory hers,
Amid the marble curves that change and stream;
And only Beauty, through dim lights, can claim
These hours that have no time or place or name.