Classic Poem

Since thou came'st not at morn, come not at even;
Let night close peaceful where it hath begun.
Affrighten not the restful stars from heaven
With futile after-glimpses of the sun.
My heart inclines me, but my lands are wasted,
My treasure spent, and evening closes dim;
Spring's fair demesne the chilling frost hath tasted—
I have no house for Love to shelter him.

No raiment fair to clothe his limbs so tender;
No spicèd wines to cool his burning lip;
No garlands wherewithal to crown his splendor;
No lute to tune to songful fellowship.
No pillow for the twilights of his dreaming;
No roses on these brows, with winter grim,
Wherewith to strew his couch, as were beseeming—
I have no house for Love to shelter him.

Ride on, and tarry not, O kingly stranger!
This darkened chamber is a house of prayer;
A place of vigils, and to youth a danger—
'Twas fair at morning, but thou wert not there.
Who woos the sapless winter for his lover,
Or hangs his garlands at a cloister grim?
Oh! bid me not my nakedness discover,—
I have no house for Love to shelter him!