Classic Poem

Yet when I strive to cease, yea when I think of ending,
It is but as a man whose eyes stoop downward, bending
Towards river-banks made sweet
With peppermint and thyme and tall reeds bright and gracious;
Who says, “I am content: I need no more the spacious
High hills and mountains for my wandering feet.”—

It is but as a man who merely loving rivers
And willow green that waves and alder dark that quivers
O'er blue tides tenderly,
Thinking to sing of these in some fair inland prison,
Lifts sudden eyes of awe when lo! before his vision
God stands majestic, and pours out the sea.

So, infinite thou art. Though I may cease to sing thee
Yet never will my heart through all time cease to bring thee
Love infinitely strong.
Yes: all the seasons' wealth, and every summer's flowers,
And music of my life's long heavy-hearted hours,
And my heart's tender praise and changeless song.

Yet can I cease to sing? Can sunrise fail us? Never!
My very heart is song, my love is song for ever,
My soul is song for thee:
My heart began to sing when first thy beauty found me
And the sweet love of thee encircled me and crowned me
As thy sole singer through eternity.