Classic Poem

“What art mooning at, fool?
Some wanton boy and his limbs?
Such dreams should be put to school:
I'll chasten these fleshly whims!”

He has shot the bolts on her room
In the brazen tower.
“Remain there, ninny: your doom
Till the sand sifts your last hour!”

With eyes grieving on space,
Has she sight among all these blind?
Because of her dreaming face. . . .
How harshly the great keys grind!

They have gone. She clenches her hands,
She struggles and makes soft moan. . . .
Then smiles, for she understands:
The soul is never alone.