Classic Poem

Art thou standing on the shore
Which the spirits tremble o'er,
Ere they take the plunge for ever
In the bottomless receiver:
This commencing dissidence
Ere it cleave us hence and hence;
Ere the first hour stays its sands
Since the life-pulse left thy hands;
Art thou there, and dost thou cast
Thy strange glance, the first and last,
On the world which thou didst fill
Within thy essence: on my will —
'twas an ocean, and its tide
Ruled by thee: therein did ride
Fruitful reason — 'twas an isle
Rendered happy by thy smile;
On each process of my brain
'twas the traveling in pain
Of creations which uprose,
Founded each on other's closer;
On my hopes, my joys, my pains; —
These were mountains, valleys, plains;
On my intellect which fed; —
'twas a river's simous head
Eating out into the sea:
On my spirit's entity;
Which embraced as its own essence
Thy whole mystery of presence; —
'twas the full and rounded sphere
In its either bright and clear.
Many a chasm in this thy world
Mayest thou view in crystal funded,
Many a rent and gristly knot,
Many a meeting lava grot,
Many a white and ghastly waste
In thy smiling garden placed,
Many an earthquake catching breath
From the savage fires beneath.
Many a seam of pain and crime,
Much of wreck and much of time.
Ah, sweet soul of all, them turn
From the dark things thou must descern;
Quit me not in hate for ever,
Plunge not in the deathless river
Of the bottomless receiver.