Classic Poem

It is not meet for one like me to praise
A lady, princess, goddess, artist such;
For great ones crane their foreheads to her touch,
To change their splendours into crowns of bays.
But poets never rhyme as they are bid;
Nor never see their fit goal; but aspire,
With straining eyes, to some far silvern spire;
Flowers among, sing to the gods cloud-hid
One of these, onetime, opened velvet eyes
Upon the world—the years recall the day;
Those lights still shine, conscious of power alway,
But flattering men with feigned looks of surprise.

The couplet is so great that, where thou art,
—Thou being a poem—it is past my art.