Classic Poem

Before, behind me is the thought of you.
I cannot shake it off like dust, or scent
Of apples brought in from the August dew.
It clings to me, and marks me different
From folk who never think of you at all;
Who talk of showers, of wrecked kings, of books,
The cost of bricks, of their girls growing tall.
Thus I go wisely, and with strange, cool looks,
Unready for trite things, like a mean air,
Or sour, small deeds. I flaunt not to the face
Of these impoverished folk the wealth I hold,
The wealth is you, incredible, too fair,
Enough to haven me in any place,
Keep me in Aprils, and from turning cold.