Classic Poem

It is no cryptic or alchemic thing
That this old fever should have power afresh
To make me lie here sleepless, turn and thresh
Like any lad bemused with love and spring.
The old, inexorable currents swing
In sap and blood. The ancient coils enmesh
Larva and man. And I am only flesh,
And not exempt, for all my reasoning.

So it is just as well it should be you
To whom my futile hunger turns once more —
Better, indeed, that April's wind should blow
The old ache into flame than fire a new.
I need bear only what I bore before,
And wait for time's sure febrifuge of snow.