You read to me from Plato, and my heart
Breathes like a bird at rest; the world of men,
Strife, hate, are all forgotten in this art
Of life made perfect. Or when weariness
Comes over us, you dim the lamp and start
The blue light back of Dante's bust to bless
Our twilight with its beauty.
So the time
Passes too quickly—our poor souls possess
Beauty and love a moment—and our rhyme