Classic Poem

I have no present way of telling how
Your eyes would speak, and with what shade or tone,
If I should take your hand within my own;
Whether its sweet possession you'd allow,
Or claim it back — and I must needs atone!
Whether, for any ill-used word, your brow
Would cloud; or praised, that cheek so placid now
Would flush, with all its roses summer-blown.

And this uncertainty may well remain
When we have no more secrets for confessing —
And on my mouth your silver kisses rain.
Nay, were there no surcease to our caressing,
Knowledge of you I still should strive to gain
Though I had all of you for my possessing!