Classic Poem

O science of fibrous crested lyre,
Who, winding, heeds our inmost desire,
Can heave a spirit from now and then,
Thus cleave the depth from perspiring spleen,
Who hails miniature's beaming breast
Which soul can throw from east to west!
But e'er its seed doth blindly on, caressed
By Jove's stratus dew, 'twixt ray,
Shade and sordid clay, abides through
Splendors' proportionate hue, that space, aerial,
Confines to its own response within its
Burst of unseeming, blossoming—strews
Salon natures of streaming divines—
O brilliant love of the horizon sirens!