Classic Poem

It is as if some tender forest-flower
Should quiver on its slender stem's small thread
At the great war of tree-tops overhead,
Where power of the air seems met with power;
And, vibrating in passionate sympathy,
Should feel the stress of every storm-tossed, groaning tree.

Thou, in thy quiet life, beloved friend,
By draughts unseen of something subtler far
Than that which links my soul to things that are,
Dost feel life's struggles and what these portend.
Far from the battle, in security,
Thou mak'st the strife thine own, intent on victory.