Classic Poem

A wreath that flitters uppermost, spends its whole
Where its birth doth newly convey
And glide its thought — cloud into pussel, that
Reels as one — and to its goal!
What tender dream hast thou felt?
Who may this lofty spirit be
That soared in passion, bore the rainbow hues
And tore such skeptic heart from thee? —
Each word to feel my body lame
And ne'er to think that form should reign;
Ah, days of old — past — my childhood care,
The sieve of patience came on to strain,
Has sought in fever to know and share
Thy perfect rite; but O such product love rang gain.