Classic Poem

The star I worship shines alone,
In native grandeur set apart;
Its light, its beauty, all my own,
And imaged only in my heart.

The flower I love lifts not its face
For other eyes than mine to see;
And, having lost that sacred grace,
'Twould have no other charm for me.

The hopes I bear, the joys I feel,
Are silent, secret, and serene;
Pure is the shrine at which I kneel,
And purity herself my queen.

I would not have an impious gaze
Profane the altar where are laid
My hopes of nobler, grander days,
By heaven inspired, by earth betrayed.

I would not have the noontide sky
Pour down its bold, obtrusive light
Where all the springs of feeling lie,
Deep in the soul's celestial night.

Far from the weary strife and noise,
The tumult of the great To-day,
I guard my own congenial joys,
And keep my own sequestered way.

For all that world is cursed with care,
Has nothing holy, nothing dear;
No light, no music anywhere,—
It will not see, it will not hear.

But thou, sweet spirit, viewless power,
Whom I have loved and trusted long,—
In pleasure's day, in sorrow's hour,—
Muse of my life and of my song;

Breathe softly, thou, with peaceful voice,
In my soul's temple, vast and dim!
In thy own perfect joy rejoice,
With morning and with evening hymn!

And though my hopes should round me fall,
Like rain drops in a boundless sea,
I will not think I lose them all
While yet I keep my trust in thee!