Classic Poem

Here is no peace, although the air has fainted,
— And footfalls die and are buried in deep grass,
And reverential trees are softly painted
— Like saints upon an oriel of glass.

The pattern of the atmosphere is spherical,
— A bubble in the silence of the sun,
Blown thinner by the very breath of miracle
— Around a core of loud confusion.

Here is no virtue; here is nothing blessed
— Save this foredoomed suspension of the end;
Faith is the blossom, but the fruit is cursed;
— Go hence, for it is useless to pretend.