Classic Poem

The mighty many-sounding English sea
Forgets to love its moon and worships thee;
The English meadows, by thy beauty won,
Dream in thy glances and forget the sun;
The English dales, and dells of deep-green gloom,
Beneath thy footing tremble into bloom;
The morning follows thee; the wondering night
Forgets its stars—for are not thine eyes bright?
The English summer wind must tune its lute,
Love, at thy voice,—or be for ever mute;—
The laughter in the branches of the pine
Was never lovely till it copied thine;
An English poet loves thee,—and his heart
For ever singing sings how small a part,
How frail a fragment, of thy beauty's soul;
Can mortal foot attain love's timeless goal?
Can mortal strength avail to worship thee
Who hast the sweetness of Eternity?