Classic Poem

How little seem the joys and fears
We shun or chase!
How foolish seem our fevered years
Of smiles and tears,
Beside the music of the spheres
And the high harmonies of Space!

Natheless the spinning dædal world,
Floats in the current of our veins;
Within our souls the stars are whirled;
We breed the planets in our brains.
From us all Being has its birth,
Of all things is our being spun;
In us are Heaven, and Hell, and Earth,
And every star, and every sun.

When hair of gold
Turns hair of grey;
When joys grow cold
And fade away;
Then Loves grow old,
And Loves decay.

Nay, there you miss
Love's meaning high:
Love is nor kiss
Nor lover's sigh,
But inmost Bliss
That cannot die.

It is a lark!
On soaring wings,
Or day or dark,
It ever sings—
O mortals hark!—
Immortal things.

It is the blood
In the Heart of God:
It brings the bud
To Aaron's rod;
And stirs the mud,
And stings the clod,

With songs unsung,
And tales untold,
With seeds unflung,
And buds unrolled,
Love will be young
Till God is old!