Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE DWELLS UPON THE POWER OF HER HAIR, HER EYES

The heavenly gust rolled from that laurel green,
Where Love quelled Phaebus with a flaming stroke,
Where I was captived to so dear a yoke
That liberty may not again be seen —
That gust persuades me, as that Bedouin
The bright Medusa changed into an oak;
Nor ever can the magic knot be broke
Whose dazzle dims the sun's familiar sheen —
The magic knot of hair whose brilliant twist
Enfolds and fastens with so pure a grace
My soul that with its meekness may resist —
Its meekness only. Her mere shadow's space
Freezes my heart with cold despair, my wrist
Fails, and I blanch, and turn stone to her face.