Classic Poem

Thou who thy deepest joy dost find
In tracking out the paths of thought
O'er many a cloudy summit wrought
By labour of the human mind,—

Do not the wingëd thoughts of Youth
Press nearest to the heavenly light
When led by Beauty,—seen aright,
The eternal Avatar of Truth?

Take then the songs of one who stands
A hallowed priest at Beauty's shrine,
Whose words are sweeter than the wine
Press'd from the grape in sunnier lands.

As a still lake amid the hills,
Picturing the sunshine or the storm,
Can even blackest clouds transform
Into that Beauty which it wills;

So doth this Singer list the cries
Of human passion, human pain,
And breathes them to the world again
In melody that never dies.
And thou, my friend, who know'st so well
The inward hope, the inward fear,
Thou canst not fail to hold him dear,
Who, e'en in sweetest tones, can tell.

The anguish of a human soul,
Which beats the portal of the grave,
And cries: “Who is it that shall save?
What hand shall lead me to the goal?”

Take then the songs of one I love
In spirit; may'st thou love him too!
The word of one whose heart is true
Oft proves an olive-bearing dove.