Classic Poem

There are sad places where no starbeam shines,
Waste desolate abysses of the dark,
Where no glad light the wandering soul may mark, —
Whereover the black waves in stormy lines
Pour ceaselessly: — spots where no angel's foot
Has trodden; lurid as deep deadly mines:
Hell-pits wherein the lingering captive pines;
Devoid of buds and flowers and gracious fruit.

What star can light them, or what step traverse
These regions branded with a mystic curse?
What help can reach the prisoners therein bound, —
Cold pulses there shall throb at what glad sound?
What flame, what fire, can comfort there impart?
Only the sweet fire of a woman's heart.