Classic Poem

I had a name. A wreath of woven air,
A wreath of letters blended, none knew why,
Floated, a vocal phantom, here and there,
For one brief season, like the dragon-fly
That flecks the noontide beam
Flickering o'er downward, forest-darkened stream
What word those letters shaped, I tell you not:
Wherefore should such this maiden marble blot?
Faint echo, last and least, of foolish fame,
I am a soul; nor care to have a name.