Classic Poem

It seems I have not breathed till now,
Nor felt such deep and still delight;
The wind's a cool hand on my brow,
And I am robed in night —
In high and lordly night.

I want not gold nor silken grace,
Nor to be straw to men's desire;
I'd clasp again my mother's face
Before the evening fire —
The warm, transfiguring fire.

I want not love, — alas, I hear
A spurred horse racing on the sand, —
Ah, woe is me! I fear, I fear,
My lover's burning hand —
His hot and eager hand!