Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE REMEMBERS

So brief the time, the thought so fugitive
Which Laura in her death to me affords
These cannot cure a grief more sharp than swords;
Yet, when she lights my dream, pain cannot live.
Love, from whose torture there is no reprieve,
Trembles to see my soul drawn heavenwards
By her, my soul where her face, her voice lords
The tyranny which he was first to weave.
As rules the mistress sovereign in her house,
So from my heavy heart her quiet brows
Scatter each portent to the wind and foam.
My soul, as all unworthy of that glow,
Sighs, " O seraphic day of days when thou
Didst with those dear eyes take thy journey home! "