Classic Poem

I am so great a lover I can win
Eternity of joyance at the way
Clouds mass themselves upon a summer's day
Athwart the hour when twilight closes in.
And I can hearken, mid the city's din,
To lonely bird-calls shed above the play
Of waters in some Tempé far away;
And at a note, hear symphonies within.

Therefore to speak, O beautiful and wise,
It were not needful. Nay, I could make thrift
If you abide but, token in your eyes
Of some far-promised favour, some least gift.
Such worship may endure where passion dies
Adown the heart, as petals blown adrift.