Classic Poem

When this swarth body, in revolt and pain,
Erreth against thy love's sweet majesty,
Doing thee wrong that is more wrong to me,
And from its dearest usage would refrain,
And soweth hate where our clasped hands have lain
And discord where accord was wont to be, —
Turning thy breath to bitterness in thee,
Which, doubly bitter, stingeth me again, —
My golden harper, sickened of the sun,
Wild-eyed and tearful through his wind-blown hair,
The psalmist of thy beauty, who is one
With it, then fleeth up his narrow stair
And weepeth for thee till the stars are come,
As David sometime mourned for Absalom.