Classic Poem

Men, women, call thee so-or so;
I do not know.
Thou hast no name
For me, but in my heart a flame

Burns tireless, neath a silver vine.
And round entwine
Its purple girth
All things of fragrance and of worth.

Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb
Of pain! thou sob!
Thou like a bar
Of some sonata, heard from far

Through blue-hue'd veils! When in these wise,
To my soul's eyes,
Thy shape appears,
My aching hands are full of tears.