Classic Poem

Ah no, when we study our Poet divine,
Believe me, dear girl, all the profit is mine;
When he paints the first woman, the fairest of creatures,
The bloom of creation still fresh on her features,
Never dreaming as yet or of sorrow or sin,
All faultless without, and all spotless within,
Oh, how could I think such perfection were true,
Unvouch'd by a proof so convincing as you !
And when, with his Muse, we shall mount to the skies,
Oh, think what advantage to me must arise,
With you through the birth-place of Angels to roam,
Where I am an alien, and You are at home!