Classic Poem

DOUBT spake no word in me as there I kneeled.
Loathing, I could not praise: I could not thank
God for the cup of evil that I drank:
I dared not cry upon His strength to shield
My soul from weapons it was bent to wield
Itself against itself. And so I sank
Into the furnished phrases smooth and blank
Which we all learn in childhood,—and did yield
A barren prayer for life. My voice might mix
With hers, but mingled not. Hers was a full
Grand burst of music, which the crownèd Seven
Must have leaned sideways from their seats to fix
In their calm minds. The seraph—songs fell dull
Doubtless, when heard again, throughout all heaven.