Classic Poem

Sweet enslaver of the heart,
Radiant spirit born above,
Who can tell us what thou art,
Winning, wildering, witching love?

Hope and memory, care and thought,
Joy and sorrow, fear and pain,
All mysteriously inwrought
Are the linklets of thy chain.

Giver of our earliest breath;
Soother when our hearts are riven;
Mourner by the bed of death;
Porter at the gate of Heaven:

Dweller by the cottage hearth;
Ruler in the palace bower;
Holiest gift of Heaven to earth,
How transcendent is thy power!

With thy soul-entrancing arts,
Thou dost lead us willing slaves —
Slaves with fetters on our hearts,
From our cradles to our graves;

Slaves that sigh not to be free;
Slaves that pine when thou hast flown;
For this world, bereft of thee,
Is a desert dark and lone.

Fan us with thy wing divine,
Wanderer from the realms above,
While we worship at thy shrine,
Winning, wildering, witching love.