Classic Poem

O love, thou art the summer; thy sweet breast
 Is summer in its softest tenderest glow:—
 Oh, what are lilies to thy neck of snow?
The bosom wherein all my pain I rest,
Soothed past all speaking, infinitely blest!
 Delivered now from every dart of woe
 And tribulation:—yea, sweet, kiss me so—
Now blush again, shaming the blushing west!

Thou art the summer; mine eternal rose
 Thou art of heavenly summers yet unseen.
 Bear thou thy love-soft sceptre, O my queen!
Thy more than regal beauty now disclose;
 Sway all my pulses with imperial sway,
 A white moon moving my heart's tidal way.