Classic Poem

One day I stopped at a bookvender's place,
And, as a woman fingering old lace,
Caressed the volumes holding daintily
The treasure-troves of all the world for me.
Though flesh clothe not their fond imaginings,
The dreams of poets are as living things…
By Socrates' and Plato's “Soul” I found
“Mam'selle de Maupin” in rich saffron bound.
And wrangling still about the old affair
The lad and lady of the “Sonnets” were,
While Laura smiled to Beatrice; when he
Who marshalled all this ghostly company,
The clerk, I say, drew me aside, and thus
He spake to me: “A lady beauteous
Your book, O Poet, deems most exquisite,
And asks you please to write your name in it.”
“Who can it be?”
“That may I not reveal.
She lives in splendor; dizzy motors reel
At her command, beside an equipage,
And oh! her town-house is a queen's menage!”
I acquiesced, and in my book, my own,
Inscribed a greeting to the fair unknown.
But now I know 'twas magic, 'twas a snare!
If to a witch you give a strand of hair
She draws you by it over land and sea—
Thus, Unknown Lady, are you drawing me!

The ancient Greeks for honeyed lips unkissed,
For far-off things still hidden in time's mist,
For hopes obscure, mysterious vows and odd,
Upreared an altar to the Unknown God!
Thus in my heart I raise a shrine to you,
O Unknown Goddess of Fifth Avenue!
No maiden fair my vagrant heart can thrill,
For you I know not must be fairer still…
You are my mistress, and to you belong
The passion and the vision and the song.
Both day and night I wonder who you are,
If you obey some far phantastic star?
Are your hands lilies? Is their fragrance sweet?
And shall I know you when at last we meet?
Out of the night, O Goddess, send a sign
And prove to me you are indeed divine!