Classic Poem

My soul, they say, is hard and cold,
And nought can move me
Perchance 'tis so 'midst life's wild whirl,
But, oh! on Beauty's lips, my girl,
'Twill melt like Cleopatra's pearl;
Then love me, love me.
I would not climb th' ambitious heights
That soar above me;
I do not ask thee to bestow
Or wealth or honours on me now,
Or wreathe with laurel leaves my brow;
But love me, love me.

Oh! I'll gaze on thee till my fond
Fix'd glances move thee;
Love's glance sometimes the coldest warms:
Pygmalion on a statue's charms
Gazed, 'till it leap'd into his arms,—
Then love me, love me!