Classic Poem

Thine hands do smite me like the perfect chords
Of music, every finger brings a tune;
They draw me like the drawing of the moon,
They thrill my heart like beautiful sharp swords,
Or as God's sweet unerring touch rewards
His heroes; they pervade me like a stream
Of honeyed influence, or as a dream
The milk-white bosom of the night affords.

Oh, that my heaven may be the ceaseless rain
Of swords and soft flowers clustered in thy hands,
Or as the ceaseless music that expands
From these, the founts of music, when they strain
Above me, touching me; and do retain
The sweetness of the women of all lands.