Classic Poem

O singular perception of the light
That churns on high and burns oblivion,
Quite high enough or low to keep in sight
Each bit of life before its breath is gone;
Impersonal between the wrong and right,
Detecting even what they hide who run
Their dungeons deep and bury, fastened tight,
Some man who dared the freedom of the sun.

Running a stealthy splinter down a hole
Some mouse, no doubt, once had the teeth to gnaw,
It indicates the solitary soul
Who dreams that light may yet prevail as law
And ponders on the love that beam distills
Whose merest drop or two a dungeon fills!