Classic Poem

The tyrant of the days and years,
who bound man's soul with sin and law,
who mock'd the old night with aimless spheres
and bade look up to them with awe,

he once, winning a dazing glimpse
of Eden, whole in myriad joy,
summon'd his gnomes and spectre imps,
the tribes that, labouring, destroy.

Seven forges, anvils, clanking mills,
much sweating, groaning — so they wrought,
compacting random bulks of ills,
to body forth his famous thought,

which was, to outdo the eternal work
in wondrous unity and raise
a rival beauty from the murk
with added months and weeks and days.

Behold his children, how they run
hither and thither thro' their times
and seek all lands beneath the sun
and force their faith on softer climes.

and slay, and pile the stone, nor rest —
else they must think upon their grave;
for dream hath made the world unblest
and sick: and they alone shall save.