Classic Poem

Take , O Gardener, to the maiden
In whose praise the harp I string,
Take at dawn a basket laden
With the loveliest blooms of spring
Let no orange-flowers suggesting
Altar, priest, or ring be there,
But sweet valley-lilies, cresting
Roses than her cheek less fair;

Seeing which, her bird with mellow
Throat shall pipe a roundelay,
And her eyelids from her pillow
Open on a happy day,
Happier should its waning prove her
Mindful of the tender stress
That impels my soul to love her,
Though that love she never bless.