Classic Poem

WHEREIN HER VISIONARY PRESENCE, HOWSOEVER INFREQUENT, RENDERS HIS GRIEF ENDURABLE

To that pure look which honours Paradise,
That head bent sideways with its weight of gold,
That face, that voice now warm, now liquid cold,
Which lulled me once, but prompts my present sighs —
Ah, when to these my foolish fancy flies,
I greatly marvel that I am not mold
Long since! But she sustains, her hands uphold
My heart, and with the dawn she decks my eyes.
How tranquil is each attitude, how meek!
With what apparent pity she attends
The telling of my beads ... until the beak
Of daybreak plunging through my vision ends
The dream, and her familiar haste commends
The bowed head and the thoughts I dare not speak!