Classic Poem

There dont seem to be any reason for it:
My joy comes and goes and comes again somehow without reason:
My love possesses me in perpetual flood — I dont know why: it sweeps me out into its stream:
And I go on whatever reverse may come to me — go on in gladness, &
And though I might sit down and cry and give in, something not easy to account for nerves me against surrender.
The man of science says I could tell how it comes if it was true,
And the lawyers say so too, and the professors, and the experts:
And even the eager everyday man who cannot see for himself wants my reasons,
And he too goes away disappointed when I tell him I make no demonstrations
The beautiful mystery seems too sacred to be bandied about in definitions:
It is deeper than the deepest seas — there is no bottom to it:
It is higher than the highest hills — there is no top to its ascent:
It is wider than all the diameters of all the worlds — it never finishes its journey across:
It is more imposing than the passwords of martyrs and prophets — it acknowledges the people in their heroic obscurity.
Why should I make light of it simply because I cannot set it forth in a statement?
It never turns against me — whatever I do never turns against me:
No matter how uncertain my flame it is steadfast and inevitable,
No matter how far wrong I may go it never fails to go right,
No matter how I fall, and for whatever wilful cause, it still stands erect.
I do not say I deserve it and it never asks whether I deserve anything —
Though I sin the worst sin it keeps within reach the best blessing,
Though I am treacherous to the day it keeps the years forever loyal.
Maybe if you did not make so much fuss about understanding me you would feel me better,
And maybe feeling me better is better than understanding me only half enough,
And maybe the inspirations that take us farthest say the least about themselves,
And maybe the desires that are so delicate they would break if trusted to the gentlest phrases —
Maybe these desires are the staunchest bridgeways between the heights.
I do not say I know and I do not say you should acknowledge me,
I do not say I have a message or a gospel for you to take and swear to —
I do not so much say things for you as for myself,
And what I say for myself is only that I live in contact with realities,
And what I say for myself is that no alien witness can disprove me.

I am bound hand and foot to the evangel of my sufficing joy,
I am freed body and soul to the impetus of the celestial ministrant.
Think what it means: to be ready with generosity for any greed,
Think what it means: to be ready with joy for any sorrow,
Think what it means: to be ready with life for any death
Though reasons and figures fall short the account of revelation never falls short,
And though no logic lights the way my unceasing rapture lights the way,
And though the seed cannot tell how it passes on it arrives in the flower,
And though the song fears the tongue of contention it hurries to the lips of the singer.
So I keep to the road not wondering when I am mocked by the schoolmen:
I can only say that I do not know — that I only live,
I can only say that I have no diploma but that I have much love,
I can only say that I am new heart to the forsaken, who do not ask my name,
I can only say that I advance with the pioneers and send back glowing reports to my comrades whose start has been delayed —
I can only throw out these reminders, tenderly, not attempting to argue,
Admitting that there dont seem to be any reason for it.