Classic Poem

Pain drove me from the music and the hall,
Far from the city and the golden truth,
In starless midnights of a blasted youth,
Out to the iron hills, beyond recall,
Where in lone speech I sought to burst my thrall,
Then to return with records, holding sooth
And song and art for men; but fang and tooth
Bit at my throat and choked my lungs with gall
And flame yet more.—


O art is to the free!
When pain is torn, like viper, from the breast,
Its head in dust beneath the heel, and we
Know it can nevermore uplift its crest—
Then, and then only, may we masters be,
Telling experience to East and West.