Classic Poem

I know that nothing beautiful or true
Is of ourselves created, and believe
That from the earth, or yon mysterious blue,
We get all that we give.

Nor does the printed page on which I look
Contain the very thought. It pass'd at birth
Into some spirit-character, the book
Only its sign on earth.

Yet, if it do not give what doth appear,
There is this marvel in the printed word:
It puts us in communion with the sphere
Wherein all thought is stored.