Classic Poem

I do not love you, no, nor all your beauty,
Nor have I terror of your delicate magics;
I love only the silence that around you
Makes a low twilight.

Yet I desire that thunderous storms of passion
For all I am, should surge and clamor through you —
Scattering your follies and your delicate secrets —
Shaking your twilight. —

That like a temple-bell across the darkness
I should forever echo in your spirit,
With tones of legend and of high disaster
Haunting your silence.