Classic Poem

What is this wild obsessive power
That cannot give but it give all?
This child full-grown within an hour:
This love that clasps as in a thrall

This winter turned to summer's heat:
This frenzied longing in the night:
This swift-upspringing earless wheat:
This burning fire devoid of light?

O who shall grapple with the love
That never knew a mortal youth,
But like a rocket soared above
In one wild flight to capture truth?

O who to sudden power was born?
Where is the art that needs no skill?
How slowly lift the lids of morn!
How slow comes twilight o'er the hill!

And Nature rich in skill and care
To ripeness brings her choicest fruit
Slowly, with signs which men aware
Heed, though no voice the news may bruit.

But this—this power of powers grows on
Hidden in shame, the sport of jest,
By heedless parents trodden upon,
Or by religious frowns opprest;

Till wild for freedom up it springs
With tentacles where arms should be,
Which in distraction blind it flings
Around the pinions of the free.

How fearfully the ivy grips,
With iron hand in downy glove!
But O the kiss of one whose lips
Know no intelligence in love!