Classic Poem

Without a word writ down,
All wit may be attained
If words do not affect the speaker,
They seem inadequate to sorrow
Herein is the First Cause,
With which we sink or rise,
As wine in the strainer mounts high,
As cold turns back the season of flowers.
The wide-spreading dust-motes in the air,
The sudden spray-bubbles of ocean,
Shallow, deep, collected, scattered —
You grasp ten thousand, and secure one.