Classic Poem

Leaving the summer in the palms asleep
For lonely circles in the upper deep —
Leaving the wild crusader's risen blood,
That stands in many a crimson-stained bud,
As if to make a gentle guard of flowers,
To keep the memory of the Holy Cross
Safe from the dark hands of unholy powers —
Leaving the valley lilies and the moss:
Far up the silence of that Eastern sky,
Whose suns and stars are haunted by the shine
Left by the death-smile of a God, 'twas thine
To feel the vastness of infinity!

Phantoms of olive-trees, old cedar glooms,
A sacred stream — with tremulous, snowy plumes
Bearing the Father's blessing from above,
Shaped in the timid likeness of a dove —
And many solemn things, before me sweep,
Call'd up by thee, thou that hast sailed far noons,
And lain against a lonesome mountain sleep
Close to the golden-lighted Asian moons;
Yet, dusk enchanter, saddest of the sights,
Which thy still wizardry has come to bring,
Seems the dread picture of a falling wing —
A flying farewell to the sunward heights!

A falling wing — ah, even when it glows
With little fires and burns down from a rose,
It must resist its sinking, with a pain
That is sublime — a wish to rise again:
But when its place has been above the cloud,
Where its high strength has dared the storm afar,
Then feels a downward weakness, slow and proud
It drops — as grandly as an unsphered star,
Whose arms of light strive with their utmost powers
To hold a place in heaven; and thus dropp'd thine,
Dead eagle of the skies of Palestine,
And thus drop many in this world of ours!