Classic Poem

My being is absorbed in bliss so high
That at the very portal, speech is stayed.
In trembling garments is my joy betrayed,
In eyelids heavy as when sleep is by,
In eyes where passions seem to liquefy,
And, lest the soul slip through them, half-afraid.
Of what, then, is this wondrous music made
That numbs the wish to know where Heaven doth lie?
Of all the splendors all the seasons know;
Of night, and dawn, and tempest of each zone;
Lights, flowers and odors; rains that soothe and stir;
Of loveliest outlines breath and marble show;
All beauties shape her man hath ever known,
All he has felt — that is the soul of her.