Classic Poem

Let me always read the classics.
There are bardlings of a day,
Fames from twilight unto twilight;
But the classics ever stay.
And the classics are the voices
Of the mountain and the glen
And the multitudinous ocean
And the city filled with men,—
Voices of a deeper meaning
Than all drippings of the pen.

Yes, the mountains are a classic,
And an older word they speak
Than the classics of the Hebrew
Or the Hindoo or the Greek.
Dumb are they, like all the classics,
Till the chosen one draws near,
Who can catch their inner voices
With the ear behind the ear;
And their words are high and mystic,—
But the chosen one can hear.

And the ocean is a classic.
Where's the scribe shall read its word,
Word grown old before the Attic
Or Ionian bards were heard,
Word once whispered unto Homer,
Sown within his fruitful heart,—
And he caught a broken message,
But he only heard a part.
Listen, thou; forget the babblings
And the pedantries of art.

And the city is a classic,—
Aye, the city filled with men;
Here the comic, epic, tragic,
Beyond painting of the pen.
And who rightly reads the classic
Of the city, million-trod,
Ranges farther than the sky-line,
Burrows deeper than the sod,
And his soul beholds the secrets
Of the mysteries of God.

Give to me to read these classics:—
Life is short from youth to age;
But its fleetness is not wasted
If I master but a page.