Classic Poem

She took the dappled partridge fleckt with blood,
And in her hand the drooping pheasant bare,
And by his feet she held the woolly hare,
And like a master-painting where she stood,
Lookt some new Goddess of an English wood.
Nor could I find an imperfection there,
Nor blame the wanton act that showed so fair--
To me whatever freak she plays is good.
Hers is the fairest Life that breathes with breath,
And theirs still plumes and azure eyelids closed
Made quiet Death so beautiful to see
That Death lent grace to Life and Life to Death
And in one image LIfe and Death reposed,
To make my love an Immortality.