Not a poem of Shakespeare, St. Joan, or Bach?

Only life the little, or the not?
Your heart­
a little bird's flight,
rythmic'lly, happily, a conductor's hand,
symphony over colored leaves,
'til blinding my sight with sheer delight.

Or those times we've known, alone,
like tiny brave flakes of snow being pushed and blown
through mountains and trees unknown,
cold and in fright 'til we touch and hold tight,
a carpet of delight,
smothered under cover - warm to us and no other.

But my tragic lip-
ill-tempered, careless look,
which you took and shattered and shook,
life's memory of me - swiftly,
like a broken wing, a melted brook;
love quick, turn back!

Oh why not a poem of Shakespeare, St. Joan, or Bach?