Classic Poem

I stole into the secret room
Where Love lay dying;
Mystic and faint perfume
Met me like sighing;
As heaven had cast a still-born star
He lay nor stirred; the shell-thin hand
Nerveless of high command
Where once the lord-veins sped their fire.

And I had thought me glad
To let him go. “He reaps
His own,” I pious said.
But this, ah, this
Unpleading helplessness!
“Give me thy death,” I cried,
And took it from his lips.
The windows burst them wide.
The sun came in;
And Love high at my side
Stood sovereign.