Classic Poem

And the space was left open
With a harp that sung to silence.
And within the over-souled hush
I breathed the prayer, reliance,
To note such spirit as thine, who built
The cradle of kind and shade,
Tracked the wanton steeds that wail,
The cure of flies of phantom crave,
Sent the common vein blushing to deny
Thy seed that failed its core.
But the whisper of praise seemed not a tale
In which I but note its yore.
I weep its festivity unbroken.
Beyond this I can but muse with thee, unspoken.