Classic Poem

I do not sing for Maidens. They are roses
 Blowing along the pathway I pursue:
No sweeter things the wondrous world discloses,
 And they are tender as the morning dew.
Blessed be maids and children: day and night
Their holy scent is with me as I write.

I do not sing for School-boys or School-men.
 To give them ease I have no languid theme
When, weary with the wear of book and pen,
 They seek their trim poetic Academe;
Nor can I sing them amorous ditties, bred
Of too much Ovid on an empty head.

I do not sing aloud in measured tone
 Of those fair paths the easy-soul'd pursue;
Nor do I sing for Lazarus alone,
 I sing for Dives and the Devil too.
Ah! would the feeble song I sing might swell
As high as Heaven, and as deep as Hell!
I sing of the stain'd outcast at Love's feet,—
 Love with his wild eyes on the evening light;
I sing of sad lives trampled down like wheat
 Under the heel of Lust, in Love's despite;
I glean behind those wretched shapes ye see
In the cold harvest-fields of Infamy.

I sing of death-beds (let no man rejoice
 Till that last piteous touch of all is given!);
I sing of Death and Life with equal voice,
 Heaven watching Hell, and Hell illumed by Heaven.
I have gone deep, far down the infernal stair—
And seen the spirits congregating there.

I sing of Hope, that all the lost may hear;
 I sing of Light, that all may feel its ray;
I sings of Soul, that no one man may fear;
 I sing of God, that some perchance may pray.
Angels in Hosts have praised Him loud and long,
But Lucifer's shall be the harvest song.

Oh, hush a space the sounds of voices light
 Mix'd to the music of a lover's lute.
Stranger than dream, so luminously bright,
 The eyes are dazzled and the mouth is mute,
Sits Lucifer; singing to sweeten care,
He twines immortelles in his hoary hair!