Classic Poem

Is it your fault
That winds from heaven sweep through me and I call it you?
Is it your fault
That the chin and throat of you are the curve
Of a mountain-brook where I would drink,
That your whole body is a heap of stinging sweetness from the pines,
That when you sleep your silence is an arch of the moon, your motion thunder of the moon,
And when you wake your eyes are the long path of ocean to a new burning,
To a nest of phoenixes
Whose golden wings
Are tipped with flame?
Is it your fault
That phoenixes arise from fire—