Classic Poem

Consecrate voices down the world
Sound: the sea
With thunders and with surges whirled;
Thou with free
Tumult of monochordal mastery.

Wings of high passion sweep thine air
Urged of fate,
Whither the flights of all men fare;
These more great
Storm to their goal, ardent and desolate.

The face of Ilian Helen glows
Through thy skies;
Heaped gold thou hast, and dost disclose
One sword's prize
The kingdoms of the earth: here true love lies

Drowned in the Sestian seas: ill-sped
From a king
Passes the anointed grace with dread
Blood-shedding:
Ah! vanities that siren voices sing,

Thou thoughtest, void at heart ! and yet
Stronger far
Than wisdom's forecast of regret,
Each false star
Guideth its fool whither the rare truths are,

Even to the land of twilight. Night
Laps them round.
O poet, and thee what falling light
Lured to ground
From singing in the holier air fire-crowned.