Classic Poem

You little know the man to whom you write —
Still less the nature of his friends. He looks
Around these shelves, and, from immortal books,
Whole hosts of choicest friends crowd on his sight.
These ever have been his: your puny might
Can not displace one friend; nor any deed
Of his, though jarring with your peevish creed,
E'er lose him one: his strength is conscious right.
He has, besides, a visionary ken,
That holds a world of friends. On hearts of men
He has not built a hope of any height:
Withdraw them, and there is no ruin wrought.
Therefore you've used an unprophetic pen;
Your words are weak; he blasts them with a thought.