Classic Poem

All ardours, prisms, glamours, gems of gold,
All flame of wit and fiery blood of wine
Have blent their brightness in that hair of thine!
Worn as thy woven crown, or all unrolled
And blown by amorous winds grown overbold,
It gives the twilight back the morning's shine,
And all fresh hearts put tendrils forth to twine
Them with thy living glory, fold on fold.

Thy hair! ... it falls in tides of turbulence
Across the lyric wonder of thy throat,
In tides that drown my dazzled vision's sense ...
Said Wife Nineteen: " Your sonnets get my goat! "
I cried: " Your hair is like drab-coloured hay! "
I choked her with it, Sue ... Ah, welladay!