Classic Poem

So many poets lived, and died, and never found thee!—
How countless are the hearts whose loving song had crowned thee
Had they but seen thy face!—
Now in the later days, when doubt and sorrow darken,
And when to music weird the pain-crowned poets hearken,
For one Time has reserved a nobler place.

In these the later days, when through the mad world ringing
With shock and clash of strife strange sound of fiery singing
Eddies, swift wave on wave;
In these the later days, when some are chanting only
The soul of man laid waste, and passion's heart left lonely,—
While some sing love-songs to the wan-lipped grave;

In these the later days, when kings and thrones are falling
And when across the waves the fierce storm-birds are calling
And answering, one by one;
When Revolution's tides across the path are foaming;
When whispers, not of love, thrill through the green-leafed gloaming
And tempests threaten God and mock the sun;

In these wild later days, when all is dark and boding;
When deadly thoughts are hurled like deadliest shells exploding
On pale belief and creed;
Strong help and high delight it is to hold a treasure
Untouched by all the storm—a gift that none may measure—
A task to which none other may succeed.

Through all the storms I hear thy gentle soft voice speaking:
Amid the fiery rain of storm-bolts round us shrieking
I listen for thy tread:
Thou wouldst remain unchanged though all the world around thee
Fell at the trump of doom. The love whose strong hand crowned thee
Would hold thee scatheless though the world lay dead.

Great help and pure delight it is to worship theeward:—
Like turning heart and glance no longer foamward, seaward,
But up some valley-glen
Full of gold gorse and grass and gentle pink-belled heather,
Full of the sense of sun and windless summer weather,—
Then, strengthened, meeting the grey waves again.

Such is the peace thou bring'st.—In this wild stormy season,
Full of the sound of strife and hints of wrath and treason,
It is most glad and sweet
To have on me bestowed the priceless charge to sing thee,
To love thee and to crown,—to worship thee and bring thee
Flowers gathered from betwixt the warriors' feet.

Keats, Shelley, Marlowe,—these would, each, have perished, willing,
If only through their hearts thy voice had once gone, thrilling
Those fiery hearts to praise.
They lived and sang and died, yet never never knew thee!
Their swift song followed not, nor might their love pursue thee:
They died, and, dying, panted for thy gaze.