Classic Poem

Tarry, shadow of my scornful treasure,
image of my dearest sortilege,
fair illusion for which I gladly die,
sweet unreality for which I painfully live.

To the compelling magnet of thy grace
since my breast as docile steel is drawn,
why dost thou with soft ways enamour me
if from me then in mockery thou must fly?

And yet thou mayst nowise in triumph boast
that over me thy tyranny has prevailed;
for though thou breakest, mocking, the narrow coil

that girdled thy fantastic form about,
what boots it to make mock of arms and breast
if thou art prisoner of my fantasy?