Classic Poem

A child of genius,—born,
Not bred in schools,—
He scorns the world's proud scorn,
Though ranked with fools,
And holds a converse that's refined
With Nature, and with Nature's mind.

Nor does he delve with those
Who delve for gold:
But, rapt in calm repose,
Like seer of old,
He walks with God the stellar deep,
Where tides of light unbounded sweep;

And wonders why were made
The earth and stars,
Whose music rolls, unstayed,
In golden bars;
Nor strives to quench the subtle fire
That wakes his soul to high desire.

Though all that man calls great
Should he attain,
It would not, could not, sate
His burning brain;
For he would reach the source of light,
And share, enthroned, the Almighty's might!

Thus lost in thought that's free,
And manifold,
He ever drifts at sea,—
Starless and bold;
Yet cannot break the imperial seal
Of fate, nor life's dark myth reveal.