Classic Poem

O love, is this thy own dear land,
And thine the silvery hours?
Then knight me with thy own fair hand —
An accolade of flowers!

Now lucent eyes and happy face —
The stars are in thy train;
The lilies blush in their disgrace,
The rose resigns her reign!

When on that temple's domes and walls
The tints of morning shine,
It needs not Love's muezzin calls
To bid me seek their shrine.

From heart to heart, an eager tide,
Pulses the mystic wine,
In such fair channel to abide
And blend all mine and thine.

That out of Love's divine excess
New life and hope may spring;
Out of the spirit's loving stress
New songs, new souls to sing.

Out of his rare array of tints
The artist, deft and true,
Upon a fresher fabric prints
Thy loveliness anew.

So time and space, by Love impearled,
Are swallowed up in bliss,
A Cleopatra draught, a world
Dissolving in a kiss!