Classic Poem

Master of rolling plains, to sow and reap,
Master of timbered mountains, that rise up
One after other till they only cease
At the command of time and space, to which,
Master of many lands, I bow as they,
I have no lordship of my mountain lake.
It is not even measurable to me.
Asking upon the brink, " O, what am I? "
I lean above the surface. The clear lake
Gives, with the calm directness of a child,
My image, in abundant green of trees
And quiet blue commingled, and the flash
Of winged dragon fly. All these it holds
Upon the surface, and the depths move not,
Remote and imageless and ocean-deep.
Should the lake ask of me, " O, what am I? "
I could not answer; for I hollowed not
The cleft that goes down far as the mountain towers,
In which the stainless water lies asleep.
What titan agony or young despair
Of earthquake shock, or what descending glacier
Passed, with enduring imprint, I know not;
Nor how long since, what far and savage night
When herded wolves froze under a bright moon,
The water, pouring in, possessed its home.
The lake was never thought nor formed by me.
It lies, the confidant of heaven's delight.
Swallow and wind upon the surface pass,
And water beetles take their crooked way,
And lilies slow and radiant unfold.
To each what each desires, but to me
Wondering about the depth, it gives no sign.
I might sink in it, yet I could not plumb
The waters. Below accident they wait
Certain and imageless and infinite.
I thought the sun would send a final path
Of light into my lake. The sun looked down,
And looked upon the lake most gloriously,
But, blind in his essential burning, gazed
But little distance in. The depths remain
Secret and imageless and infinite.
And in the lake the moon from a steep throne
Viewed her own solitude with awe, and passed
Upon her winged throne. The depths remain
Patient and imageless and infinite.