Classic Poem

IT SHALL befall,
Ere yet the wild winged droves
Revisit the bare groves,
That midst her wintry sleep
The world's great heart shall leap
At some far call.
At some far call,
Sets out the migrant bird;
The drear dead grass is stirred,
The moth its prison breaks,
And each lone life partakes
The life of all.

Of old, as now,
This was that power benign —
This was that power malign
That did ordain unrest
And hunger to be blest:
To whom all bow.
To whom all bow: —
The blossom and the sod
Feel the unquiet God;
Bird, beast, and thine own race
Strive not before his face —
Then, strivest thou?

Despair thine art!
Thou canst not hush those cries,
Thou canst not blind those eyes,
Thou canst not chain those feet,
But they a path shall beat
Forth from thine heart.
Forth from thine heart!
There wouldst thou dungeon him,
In cell both close and dim —
The key he turns on thee,
And out he goeth free!
Despair thine art!

Thy bondslave — no!
But thou shalt wear his chain,
Nor meed for toil shalt gain,
But evermore be glad,
Though hungering and unclad,
To serve him so.
Thou'lt serve him so!
He goeth with thee, save
Into thy quiet grave;
For he was born ere thee,
Nor ever shall he be
With man laid low.

Not then he tires,
When thou art smallest dust
Driven on every gust!
Still round the glowing world
Though thou be cold, are hurled
His quenchless fires.
His quenchless fires
Brothers born after thee
(Kin of mortality)
Shall house, and welcome give;
And lordless shall he live —
Lord of Desires!