Classic Poem

O THOU that comest from the mystic East,
With caskets full of gold and spicery,
Keep not their treasure all for him alone
To whom thy heart is pledged in fealty;
But sometimes fling thy largess all abroad,
That with thy lord we may rejoice in thee

Sing to thy nest thy tenderest, sweetest song,
But nurse some strain to gladden us at times
When we are sick with longing to be stilled
By some dear poet's music-breathing rhymes,
That on our mind and sense more grateful fall
Than sound far heard of old cathedral chimes.

What thou shalt sing — thy heart shall teach thee that,
Quick-beating with its unimagined bliss:
A song to wean us from all other worlds
Till we have learned how wonderful is this.
Lady, let such a song as this be thine,
And all our hearts shall be thy Valentine.