Classic Poem

If I should send thee this unsullied sheet,
Without the useless letters that I write,
Perchance as pastime thou wouldst fill it quite
And send it me: then were my bliss complete.

When that mine eyes the blue envelope meet,
With curious haste, as ladies take delight,
I'd tear it off that naught elude my sight
And read what from thy lips would sound so sweet:

“Dear child!” “My little heart!” “My life indeed!”
How gently hadst thou then my longing stilled
With tender words and too indulgent air.
Thy very whispers might I think to read
Wherewith thy love hath all my being filled
And in my sight forever made me fair.