Classic Poem

I will not look at this. . . . I will return
To my calm lamplight; and, as years ago,
Take down the sacred volumes — slowly turn
The nobly singing pages that I know: —
Listen again while the young Shelley's voice
Speaks beautiful madness, better than our truth.
Upon his sunlit peaks, I will rejoice
In the unlimited eager hopes of youth.
Or I will watch the ghost of Goethe move
Through its vast dream-world, where is still a place
For liberal human hope, and generous love,
And the slow-gathering wisdoms of the race —
And live his golden days, and feel his trust
That life is more than wind whirling the dust.