Classic Poem

You are not peace, you are not happiness;
I look not on you with content or trust;
Nor is there in you aught with power to bless
Or heal my spirit weary of life's dust.
No, you are that which, on a leaden day,
As endless clouds sluggish with rain pass by,
Leaps brilliant once across the sullen grey,
A vivid lightning-gleam in that dead sky.
And I, whose days of sun or cloud have grown
Changelessly furled in one grey monstrous pall, —
I thirst for fierce lights, triumphs, trumpets blown,
And you, most wild and passionate of all, —
You, the bright madness lightening the curse
Of reason's dull reign in the universe.