Classic Poem

This is the mystery, and this the glory
That no man apprehends his wedded queen,
Nor knows her past, nor understands her story.
Oh, all strange blossoms over poets lean,
And poets' ears with multitudinous voices
Are filled—their eyes are dazzled with the sheen
Of viewless wings—their trembling soul rejoices
At heavenly raiment, half-revealed, half-seen.

O mystic lady of the viewless wood,
Now that on actual earth thy feet have stood,
Art thou not frightened—wilt thou flee away,
Nor let me guide, as gentle as a ray
Of sunlight or of moonlight, o'er the foam
Of life thy steps towards our ancestral home?