Classic Poem

Not useless: cold must be the heart
Can linger here in critic mood,
And fail to recognize the good,
And look and sneer, and so depart.

Not useless: were it but to prove
What aspirations are in man;
Almost divine this mighty plan —
Almost an impulse from above.

Not useless: were it but to stir
The sense of awe within the breast;
What grandeur does the pile attest!
Is it a mortal's sepulcher?

Not useless: no; while life abide,
The measure of the soul, to me,
Its utmost stretch of thought shall be
My memories of the Pyramid!