Classic Poem

A FRESHMAN THEME

World poet, we now of this latter day
Who have known failure and have felt defeat,
The dwarfed children of earth's sterile age,
Who feel our weakness weighing on our limbs
Unbreakable as bonds of adamant,
Turn to thee once again, O sun born bard:
To rest our weary souls a little space
Beneath the shadow of infinitude.
As weak men who have fallen very low,
Look toward high heaven and find some comfort there,
Knowing, however low themselves may fall,
The great blue reaches on, forever up.
O Mystery unsearchable! at times
We seek to find thy great soul's secret out,
And when some light streams like the setting sun
Across a watery waste, like swimmers bold
We plunge into that path of quivering gold,
And with long strokes we cleave the glowing wave
Straight toward the sun. But when its last caress
Leaves the horizon dark, about us steals
The awful horror of the open sea.
Thy mystery is great as is thy power,
And those who love thee most know only this,
As long since knew the men of Ithaca:
Within the great hall of our armory
Where hang the weapons of our ancient chiefs
And mighty men of old, there hangs a bow
Of clanging silver, which today no man,
Be he of mortal mother or the son
Of some sea goddess, can its tense drawn cord
Loosen, or bend at all its massive frame.
Beneath it hang the bronze shod shafts which none
Have cunning to in these days to fit thereto,
Above it all the sun stands still in heaven,
Pierced there long centuries with a shaft of song.