Classic Poem

Brush not the floor where my lady hath trod,
Lest one light sign of her foot you mar;
For where she hath walked, in the Spring, on the sod,
There, I have noticed, most violets are.

Touch not her work, nor her book, nor a thing
That her exquisite finger hath only pressed;
But fan the dust off with a plume that the wing
Of a ring-dove let fall, on his way to his nest.

I think the sun stops, if a moment she stand,
In the morn, sometimes, at her father's door;
And the brook where she may have dipt her hand
Runs clearer to me than it did before.

Under the mail of " I know me pure, "
I dare to dream of her; and, by day,
As oft as I come to her presence, I 'm sure,
Had I one low thought, she would look it away.