Classic Poem

The manifold
Red metal of your hair, vibrant like a bell,
Made, when you moved, a delicate old din
As of Spanish gold
Brought shining with a deep-sea spell
From where dead men have been,

And to see one glint of the crystalline
Blue magic of your eyes
Was to be lighter than with the first
Breath of bluebells after the worst
Of winters — was to lean
Upon the skies.

But when your spring shall have ending
And your gold be done spending,
The metal in the earth of you shall go its way
And in some other heart than mine a bluebell sway.