Classic Poem

Thou dost not know the numberless sweet heats
To whom the gentle knowledge of thee came
Through the soft messages my song imparts:
Thou dost not know how many gold-tipped darts,
Winged, beautiful, abundant, bright with flame,
My soul, on fire with loving thee, doth aim
Against the steel-bound cuirass of the world,
That so it might be pierced with utter shame,
In that it has not known and loved of old
The name that I from height to height have hurled.
There is not any flower, with heart of gold,
But hath in darkness of the summer night
Whispered the name I've whispered, with delight,—
And 'mid high spirits' converse is it told.