Classic Poem

Thine own soul is of Nature's realm a part,
And so we meet within that wide domain:
Our lips touch in the ripples of the rain,
Ocean's is our own ever-beating heart.
Thou crownest me with love, — I with mine Art
Crown thee, and with the music of my strain,
And with my inmost soul's thorn-crown of pain,
And with the dreams that through my spirit dart.

Beneath the sacred stars our spirits meet
In union wonderful and calm and sweet;
But most of all when music floods the place
With its strange amorous rapture passing fair,
I feel the touch upon me of thine hair,
And sink into thy soul's superb embrace.