Classic Poem

The immortal stream that throbs in every vein
Of this My mortal frame of men and things:
The tide that surges in the hearts of kings
And swells the teeming bosom of the main;
The Spring that blossoms in the dusty plain;
Aye and the soul of many thousand Springs:
Take it to make thy heart's imaginings;
Take it to make the workings of thy brain.

Dost thou not feel the Force within thee move,
And tremble with the trembling of the skies?
This fire which burns within thee, 'tis My love;
My truth it is which lightens in thine eyes.
Thou art in Me, O friend; and I in thee,
The light thou seest, and the eyes that see.