Classic Poem

Shadows of hoary forests, solemn haunts
Of wild, unearthly glooms! O, I would be
A dweller in your darkness, and to me
There I would find all that the spirit pants
To reach of boundless thoughts. Ye are the fane
To mightiest musings sacred, — to the sweep
Of visions dim but high, emotions deep,
Such as in breathless rest till then had lain.

Then go they forth, and, from the flowery vale
Of life's too joyous spring, among the storms
Launch their unfettered wings, till giant forms,
Born of the tempest, round them fold a veil
Of awe and lifting wonder. Such the flight
Of the waked spirit, when the world is night.