Classic Poem

The winning maid that I have won
Of womankind's the very sun,
That in her dazzling day-light hides
The duller maids I know besides,
Like twinkling stars all wan and weak
That wane from morning's golden streak.
Her soul's as pure's the lofty light
The lark sings in at greatest height;
Her love's as true as low-cast shades
To lofty suns above the glades;
And she is to be woo'd and won
By one alone below the sun;
And God has met my heart to make
A maid so fair for my poor sake,
And did not either bring her on
For eyes of generations gone,
Or leave her longer back, to shine
In later days than these of mine,
But raised her ripening now to be
So rich a prize alone for me.