Classic Poem

The world still juggles with its pleasure, feigns
Wherein it lacks, and lives pretentious days,
Spurning calm joys, truth, beauty, simple ways —
These old inspirers of the poet's pains.
O Solitary! still be these thy gains,
The harvest of thy thought, the things of praise,
The solemn chords of thy remembered lays,
The notes which live when worldly mouthing wanes!
Nor these alone thy glory and reward;
For Inspiration hath a sexless joy
Sweeter than lover's dreams. Thy flights afford
Fairer nativities than Love's employ;
The offspring of a Spirit set apart,
Yet knit forever to the human heart.