Classic Poem

Nought can destroy thy love! it clings to me,
'Midst my neglect and infidelity.
I've used no art to live in thy mind's heaven —
Have been unkind — yet thou hast ever striven
To be my comforter and guiding star.
I've follow'd vanities, and banish'd far
All thought of thee; and yet thy love's clear eye
Would bide upon me, seeming to defy
All earth to make me worthless in thy sight
O thou, the very moon of my dark night!
I've been most faithless to thee — yet, for all,
Thou art my loadstone — wilt not let me fall
From thy love's circle. Ah, what mystery
Can bind thy love to one who is to thee
So great a prodigal? O love most pure,
Whose heat amid such coldness can endure!
Not for the barter of my love thou givest
Thy soul's affection, but myself thou lovest, —
Dreaming there is in me that which is not,
Or which thy fine eyes see beneath the blot
That hides me from myself. If there be aught
In me that's worthy of thy love, 'tis that
Rich, most rich gift — To know thy goodliness .
O — if not lost — I am but saved by this.
In my worst hours, thy worth shows to me most;
It comes like moonlight on the wrecking coast,
Illumining the blindness of the skies,
And showing heaven where earth's trouble lies. —
Yet, though thy rays seem to my moty eyes
More beautiful, when thus they darkly find me,
I'd have thee always , though thy light should blind me!
For now I see thou art my only treasure:
In having thee, I have the heap'd-up measure
Of all earth's glory — since there is in thee
That which turns gold to dust, and makes it flee
Like breath away; the having of broad fields,
To that of the bare rock, which nothing yields;
The pride of riches and the pomp of ruling,
To blind insanity and idle fooling —
And what a precious jewel, then, thou art,
That with thy touch canst purify the heart
From all these idols! O, thou cloudy brain,
Make thy thick atmosphere dissolve in rain,
And leave a heaven where this orb may shine
In constant lustre, and be ever mine!

And who, and what art thou, most excellent thing,
Whose names of love, orb, jewel, treasure , ring
Confusedly throughout my careless verse;
Whose virtues still I harp on and rehearse —
Setting as worthless to thy worth, all things,
From smallest havings to the crowns of kings?
Art thou the fair maid of a lover's vision —
To him all peerless; in the world's decision
But one of many? Nay! I cannot speak
Of thy hair's twining; or of thy soft cheek;
Or of the sea of love in thy deep eye;
Or of the inflaming music of thy sigh.
Wert thou a woman, these might be my theme;
They are seldom absent from the lover's dream.
But woman thou art none — unless in spirit;
For all her heavenliness thou dost inherit,
Wanting her earth. Yet, only those beloved
By thee can see thy beauty, or be moved
By thy fine excellence; and they will know
The mystery of my speaking; them I show
What is most clear, although it seems to break
In struggles through me, labouring to take
A form unto the sight. And these harsh words
But hint their message; yet that hint affords,
To those who are thy chosen, the full sense
Of that thou speak'st through me: this diffidence,
To them who know thy hints, is eloquence.
It is thy way of telling: in the woods,
The meadows, and the hilly solitudes,
Thou speakest thus, and choosest for thy voice,
The little throats that raise the piping noise
Which rings on summer days among green trees;
The coy leaves that with the frolicsome breeze
Hold courtship i' the forest, or to themselves
Tell whispering tales of fairy land, and elves
That haunt their own wood in its dreamy places;
The joyous stream that through the meadow chases
Its own thought, like a child; the voice that comes
To his ear among the hills, when the poet roams,
Wrapp'd up in visions. Many a tongue beside,
Thou tak'st from Nature; but all mystified
They come to us — most musical in tone,
But dim in meaning, save to those alone
Who are thy gifted; their fine ear receives
The meaning which thy voice in mystery gives.

And to this mystery thou would'st tune my ear:
But I am faithless to thee, and I fear
The World has too much of me to be thine
So wholly as to understand thy sign,
In its most secret meaning. Can I not
Shake off the earth that clogs my every thought,
And be all thine, who, with untiring love,
Would'st one so very false and changeful have?

I would thee wed, and yet the World's I'd be;
But whoso weds the World can not wed thee!
Besides, two wives in one house cannot sit;
Then must I be the changeful lover yet —
Courting a while the lewd smiles of the World,
Till, sick at heart and weary, I am hurl'd
From her false arms to seek relief in thee,
My ever sweet and faithful P OESIE .