Classic Poem

You ask me what is Genius? 'tis that
Which counts not hours to work its end; nor years.
It is the single living thing unborn
Of Time, or due to Death. The seasons pass —
Time sows & reaps — but from that fallow field
Genius reserves [?], the richer harvest ripens: —
The harvest that Eternity will garner.
Beware how you condemn sun-drinking sloth —
For it is sacred to an unseen presence;
And over it the Soul of Genius hangs
Mute upon breezeless wings; — & as from Chaos
Creation rose — so spring the immortal flowers
And fruit of genius from that brooding silence
Where dove-like