Classic Poem

O Spirit of the Pure at Heart
Abiding in these glades apart,
Would, ah, would I were
As the oak-tree or the fir,
Deep of root and strongly growing,
Firm, tho' Baltic winds are blowing;
Yea, or the meanest bird that sings,
Or the humblest flower that springs:
But I am Life grown spiritless,
And I am Strength in weariness,
Worn in a quest I shall not win;
And I am Light in sore distress,
Grown dim with sin.