Classic Poem

I shall not hang my harp on trees — to all winds is given its sound. Even in my dream I possess no land of honey and milk any more .
In my soul a little mouse scratches — either father's or grandfather's tune; but the door of my own Sabbath the weekdays have bolted with a star .
Grind me, grind me to a granule, grinding stones of all time, if only thus the morning star will ripen like an apple .