Classic Poem

Presence divine! Great lord of this our sphere!
Bringer of light, and life, and joy, and beauty, —
God midst a million gods, that far and near
Hold each his orbs in rounds of rapturous duty;
Oh never may I, while I lift this brow,
Believe in any god less like a god than thou.

Thou art the mightiest of all things we see,
And thou, the mightiest, art amongst the kindest;
The planets, dreadfully and easily,
About thee, as in sacred sport, thou windest;
And thine illustrious hands, for all that power,
Light soft on the babe's cheek, and nurse the budding flower.

They say that in thine orb is movement dire,
Tempest and flame, as on a million oceans:
Well may it be, thou heart of heavenly fire;
Such looks and smiles befit a god's emotions;
We know thee gentle in the midst of all,
By those smooth orbs in heaven, this sweet fruit on the wall.

I feel thee here, myself, soft on my hand;
Around me is thy mute, celestial presence;
Reverence and awe would make me fear to stand
Within thy beam, were not all Good its essence:
Were not all Good its essence, and from thence
All good, glad heart derived, and child-like confidence

I know that there is Fear, and Grief, and Pain,
Strange foes, though stranger guardian friends, of Pleasure:
I know that poor men lose, and rich men gain,
Though oft th' unseen adjusts the seeming measure:
I know that Guile may teach, while Truth must bow,
Or bear contempt and shame on his benignant brow.

But while thou sitt'st, mightier than all, O Sun,
And e'en when sharpest felt, still throned in kindness,
I see that greatest and that best are one,
And that all else works tow'rds it, though in blindness.
Evil I see, and Fear, and Grief, and Pain,
Work under Good their lord, embodied in thy reign.

I see the molten gold darkly refine
O'er the great sea of human joy and sorrow;
I hear the deep voice of a grief divine
Calling sweet notes to some diviner morrow;
And though I know not how the two may part,
I feel thy rays, O Sun, write it upon my heart.

Upon my heart thou writest it, as thou,
Heart of these worlds, art writ on by a greater:
Beamed on with love from some still mightier brow,
Perhaps by that which waits some new relator;
Some amazed man, who sees new splendours driven
Thick round a Sun of suns, and fears he looks at heaven.

'Tis easy for vain man, Time's growing child,
To dare pronounce on thy material seeming:
Heav'n, for its own good ends, is mute and mild
To many a wrong of man's presumptuous dreaming,
Matter, or mind, of either what knows he?
Or how with more than both thine orb divine may be?

Art thou a god indeed? or thyself heaven?
And do we taste thee here in light and flowers?
Art thou the first sweet place, where hearts, made even,
Sing tender songs in earth-remembering bowers?
Enough, my soul. Enough through thee, O Sun,
To learn the sure good song, — Greatest and Best are one.

Enough for man to work, to hope, to love,
Copying thy zeal untired, thy smile unscorning:
Glad to see gods thick as the stars above,
Bright with the God of gods' eternal morning;
Round about whom perchance endless they go,
Ripening their earths to heavens, as love and wisdom grow.