Classic Poem

When shall we meet, my lost delight, and where?
What regions have the flowers of thy feet
Made odorous, or what hazy heights of air
Have trembled o'er thine hands in kisses sweet?
What heaven shines with gold increase of light,
What clouds are touched to music at thy tone,—
What myrmidons angelic, mailed in might,
Are humble worshippers of thee, mine own?
And dost thou sail through balmy sunset seas,
Clothed with the vapours that incarnadine
The tender outpoured ringlets of the breeze?
Ah! thou art not irrevocably mine
Till the inevitable hand of death
Blends the forlorn divisions of our breath.