Classic Poem

What faith doth not bare obeyance lure?
Therein, even dwell the peace of complete magnitude.
O cause! an earth stood still and suspense endures
The harvests' reprove of thy spiritual good;
O mystic wine of clearing, whose keenness lost
The formula soar of the prelated genius,
Wrapped the cloak of bitter moods of yon tinted yore,
Times gaily retreat hath fathomed stern
Our heavens eternal, thick vapored hues
From whence? Thou, O lord, hath shorn
And given its critical spirit, its tender face.
Ah ye mighty specks, as beings from flame of wind,
Hast thou caused a shrill note within thy reach
And given salvation unto great illusive kind?