Classic Poem

Not in these songs of thee do I caress
My lyre, and utter amorous melodies, —
Singing love-songs beneath blue facile skies
Unstricken of storm, unversed in passion's stress.
Nay, rather would I thunder through my lyre
And mix my song with the tumultuous storm,
If so I might the sons of men inspire
And with my soul their listening souls inform!

For thou art great: no queen of amorous ditty,
But sweet, divine, a woman full of pity
That crowneth woman, and of woman's might: —
Queen of the proud untouched impassioned soul:
Therefore for thee shall songs in thunders roll
And peals reverberant the far ether smite.