Classic Poem

For, sweet, there is not any woman like thee!
They are not flowers, these common shapes around,
Nor sprang they sudden from enchanted ground.
Oh, how the old playful breeze, as if to strike thee,
Charged, then withdrew with gentle rustling sound
When thou within green Paradise wast bound,
Not dreaming of thy coming days of earth,
Or of these clinging songs, so firmly wound
About thy temples—knowing not of thy birth
That was to be, nor of thy woman-worth—
Dreaming instead that thou wast but a flower
Whose gentle wings for ever should abide
Within that far sequestered silent bower,
Never becoming mortal's blossom-bride.