Classic Poem

Gods, idols, fetiches of wood and stone
Of carven ivory and of beaten brass,
They rise and fall, they flourish and they pass,
Or stand disfigured in some desert lone;
Creeds come and go and on the sands are strown
And wither like the winter-shaken grass,
And all such things are shadows on a glass
To this one love which I for you have known.

For in my pagan heart I hold you dear
More than a miser might his store of gold,
Or ship-wrecked tar the rescuing sail unfurled.
In my religion you are worship here
Beyond all gods or temples manifold,
The sole and only woman in the world.