Classic Poem

Mine are the plumes of sound that shall uplift
This viewless spirit of hers towards the sky;
Yea, mine shall be the spirit itself: my gift.
Again and yet again her soul shall try
In its own sweet self-confidence to fly;
Again and yet again her soul shall fail:
She is not garbed in the immortal mail,—
Nor can she, through fierce effort, soar on high.

Then shall she come to me with humble face,
Seeking the assistance of the singer's grace,
And he shall lift her softly through the air:
Oh when thou need'st me, and the moment comes
In which thy flower of aspiration blooms,
Nor look, nor call: unsought, I shall be there.