Classic Poem

WHEREIN THE PRAISES OF HIS LADY TRANSCEND HIS SKILL

Shamed often by the thought that still unsung
Dear Lady, is your beauty in my rhyme,
I go back to the unforgettable time
When first I saw you (moment that has clung
Supremely to my heart). But I have wrung
No rapture worthy of you from the chime
Of my poor syllables; nor can ever climb
The mountain where the difficult harp is hung.
Again and again on point to speak your name
I opened my lips, only to feel again
My voice locked in my breast. O what pure flame
Of sound could ever reach such perfect pain!
In verse pen, hand and spirit fell in shame
Before the first assault — and fell in vain!