Classic Poem

Can this finding your presence dear,
And also wishing mine found dear,
And hoarding under courtesy
Fancied minutiae of affection—
Can this be made somewhat of lust
That, clamorous for loving signs,
My heart so piously disowns
Thought of the usual embraces?

The morning's memory of lust
Is bashful and the naked dream
Clothed with denial in its telling.
What lewd unspeakable confession
Holds up the honesty between us
Like dream which better had been told,
That, risking candour's horrid blush,
I greet you with too fond a look?