Classic Poem

Were men of such importance as they deem,
Earth might look sad on them for being unread
So long: so long perversely written dead;
A stepping-stone, if that, to the Supreme:
More oft a block, or a misleading beam.
She has her wheel to spin, he[r] weft to thread,
And sings the while: her work supplies them bread;
Her gifts comprise the mastery of her theme.
Thus have they life, & labour clear before
Their faces, with the crown of labour shown
In glimpses where the tangled woodway thins.
But fables, built of old perceptive sins
Against her laws, have barred an inward door
Between them & their God: each hugs his own.