Classic Poem

Poor was the bower of love: — within the bower
One most divine with girlhood's swanlike grace;
Lips proudly curved to scorn of all things base,
Passion's bright bow, yet lovelier than a flower.
No silken canopy, — yet within this place
The holiest sense of great Love's sovereign power,
Who there had prisoned for one priceless hour
Immortal beauty in a mortal face.

What marvels can the eternal god achieve,
The god of love, who still on man bestows
In hut or cottage, measureless delight.
In every woman there's a hint of Eve;
In every flower a soupçon of the rose;
In every star one jewel of the night.