Classic Poem

It is not in the quality of Love
To be relieved from human error quite;
Nor quite unsullied is yon Orb above,
That fills the o'erhanging heavens with warmth and light,
And, from its vast and ever-burning fountains,
Sheds on the slumbering earth those summer showers,
Which clothe her meads with green, and bid her mountains
Shoot forests forth, in joy. And yet, O Love! O Sun!
What a world were ours,
Did ye not both your radiant journies run,
And touch us with your brightness, pure and kind!