Classic Poem

This is the secret of triumphant Art, —
To lose itself in Nature, pour its heart
Upon the winds away.
Not to turn pale-hued at the storm-blast's drum,
Nor bugles of the wild waves when they come
Fanfaring past the headland grey.

To lose its single self, and to suspire
With Nature's breath; to know the clouds' desire,
The life of stars and trees;
To hold itself suspended in the mid
Large tide of things; to lurk most safely hid
Within the soft plumes of the breeze;

This is the life of Art, the life of man:
This is the immortal life that ne'er began
Nor has it end nor break.
We are constituents of the deathless whole.
To every golden star the human soul
Is linked. The sun shines for our sake.

What heart can dread the billows fierce and strong
Who hears behind their blue-green ranks the song
Of One who leads their charge?
What human soul can sink to final death
Beneath their tides, if that soul breathes the breath
Of deathless God through soul-lungs large?

The lightning is our own. We tame its wings,
And lo! our messages of love it brings
Along the safe straight wire.
We use the very force whose flash perturbs. —
We make the poison-hearted sluggish herbs
Lull human pain at our desire.

Nought fails us. Straight down history's iron grooves
A spirit cognate to our own heart moves:
His dwelling-place is ours.
If we once lose ourselves in his superb
Vast life, we win the force to chain and curb
The giant elemental powers.

All loss of self is gain. Love is just this —
Not the mere single isolated kiss,
Though every kiss is sweet,
But the reception through a woman's eyes
Of a new life, as self shrinks up and dies:
Heaven opens, when two spirits meet.