Classic Poem

We are spirits all in white,
On a field as black as night;
There we dance and sport and play,
Changing every changing day.
Yet with us is wisdom found
As we move in mystic round.
Mortal! wouldst thou know the grains
That Ceres heaps on Lybian plains,
Or leaves that yellow Autumn strews,
Or the stars that Herschel views,
Or find, how many drops would drain
The wide scooped bosom of the main,
Or measure central depths below,
Ask of us and thou shalt know.
With fairy feet we compass round
The pyramids' capacious mound,
And step by step ambitious climb
The cloud-capt mountains' height sublime;
Riches, tho we do not use,
Tis our's to gain, and our's to lose.
From Araby the blest we came,
In every land our tongue's the same;
And if our number you require,
Go count the bright Aonian quire.
Woulds't thou cast a spell to find
The track of light, the speed of wind?
Or, when the snail, with creeping pace,
Shall the swelling globe embrace?
Mortal! our's the potent spell,
Ask of us, for we can tell.