Classic Poem

I bear my lady unto other lands,
New spheres of thought, — through spirit-realms we fly:
As one who leads from under English sky
His bride to where dense tropic bloom expands,
Or shapes a home for her with thoughtful hands
Where through the groves Italian breezes sigh, —
Or 'neath the snowy glare of mountain high, —
Or 'mid the burning glare of Indian sands.

Yea, so, victorious, I would bear my lady,
From thought's first maiden regions, cool and shady,
Towards tropic lands of fiercer burning glee:
There not one friend shall follow her — for fear
Of thought's wide desert, silent, parched, and drear;
She shall live there alone, — alone with me.