Classic Poem

A flame — an instant, secret, mystic thing —
Burns in my soul, and shall forever burn.
The harm is done; in vain were murmuring;
For she that kindled it will never learn
Whose hand it was. She will not even turn
To me, though to her garment-hem I cling;
Nor one of all the days to be will bring
Me strength to speak to her. I can but yearn.
Albeit God made her tender and so sweet,
Love sets for naught the music of her feet.
For naught love follows her with soft command;
She hears stern duty only, night and day.
Reading these very verses, she will say,
" Who is this woman? " and nowise understand.