Classic Poem

If in a world where life is born of death,
And from the fate of dying none is free,
And the chief law is Strife, and ev'ry breath
Of man and beast and bird and fish and tree
Is daily drawn in dissolution's doubt—
If in a world like this there can be one
Among the rounding shows to single out
For praise—then will I praise the Sun!
The Sun, the Sun!—though it can deserts make,
And light its lanterns in their windswept bones;
I praise the Sun that doth with glory flake
The flowering meadows and the very stones;
That can the world transfigure to my eye,
And warm to substance all that shadows by.
Praising I live, and when I foundered be,
O thou belovèd Sunlight, cover me!