Classic Poem

As is the Sun essential unto spring,
Wings to the Eagle to sustain his flight,
Or Moon to give enchantment to the night,
So is the presence of the maid I sing
Essential to my being. Ye Pow'rs above,
Presiding o'er the destinies of men;
Reveal in some sweet dream the chaste hour, when
I may presume to breathe 'fore heaven my love.
O happy thought, tho' but of hope the flower!
Methinks I see the purest of her kind
Blushing 'neath fillets that her dark hair bind,
Yielding to me her heart, itself a dower
Richer than any which, in days gone by,
Ev'n Kings to win have prov'd their chivalry.