Classic Poem

Might I lie where leans her lute,
When her fingers thrill & thrill
Thrice the wild strings; and, bending mute,
In her ear they throb, and spill
Music so tremulous; soul-betrothed; panting to death.
Sweetlier then would I awake
All the loveliness I know
Into sweet song; and sweetlier make
On her bosom overflow
All my great passion in one yearning rapture of breath.