Classic Poem

How often, poor, mad Phaetons, are we cast
By our own rampant thoughts upon the ground;
Falling from highest Heaven with wild rebound,
Because we cannot hold these coursers fast,
And wring obedience from them. O, at last,
Grant us, high gods, with rayèd glory crowned,
To guide swift-soaring thoughts through heights profound
Of clearest ether! O, no more aghast
May we fall, with hot, blazing hair, and face
All singed, and pallid with the sickening sense
Of helpless impotence, through Heaven's great space,
Waiting the coming shock in dread suspense!—
We would be sun-gods, full of light and grace,
Driving in sure control through tracts immense.