Classic Poem

Will there be wooing of thee, as below?
 Must thou be sought for, eagerly pursued,
 Followed through many a wayward woman's mood,
Pierced with love's arrows—sometimes plunged in woe?
Then lifted up more passionate heights to know?
 Is this the story of our love, Gertrude?
 Must even spirit-passion have its food
Of coy reluctance, coldness, fiercer glow?

Oh, kiss me, sweet, and turn aside thy face,
 Thy dear face, laughing—woman art thou yet,
 Though on thine auburn locks the crown be set
Eternal, and heaven's sun smile on thy grace:
 Yet woman art thou. I will not pursue
 Swiftly, lest thy foot crave the racecourse too!