Classic Poem

Nothing moves me but mine own thoughts:
Not the fine hatred of war,
Nor the hatred which war brings forth.

But all my nights are filled with a violet-blue dusk of dreams,
And through the dusk
The ripple of silk over white flesh
And the wistful eyes of immortal women.

Nothing shakes my pulse but mine own dreams.

But all night long I see,
Ceaselessly falling,
Filled with light,
Distilling a rare fragrance,
Hair that is neither of silver nor gold,
Hair that is neither like silver nor gold,
But beaten of some unsearchable metal,
Softer than silver,
More lustrous than gold.

And yet, if the call should come,
I should go down with the rest,
And take my turn with the festered limbs of men,
The broken brains and the bruised eyes,
And the dead that have no more dreams.