Classic Poem

Say , what is love, that luxury of hearts,
Which feeds on hope, and fear, despair, and sighs,
Which by one look a thousand vows, imparts,
And speaks the silent language of the eyes.
Refin'd as snows, that bleach upon the blast,
Pure as the Pilgrim's kiss at Mecca's shrine,
Is Love! — now drooping sad, with woes o'ercast,
Now floating o'er the clouds on wing divine.
A glorious spark of heav'nly heat, to fire
The mortal mind with extacy sincere,
That burns, in verse, along the sounding wire;
And bids a pensive pleasure swell each tear.