Classic Poem

Wrap thyself up in night; speak low, not loud;
Spread shining mist along a solemn page;
Be like a voice, half-heard from hollow cloud,
And thou shalt be the prophet of the age.

Conceal thy thought in words; or, better still,
Conceal thy want of thought; and thou shalt be
Poet and prophet, sage and oracle,
A thing of wonder, worship, mystery.

Coin some new mystic dialect and style,
Pile up thy broken rainbows page on page;
With dim dissolving views the eye beguile,
And thou shalt be the poet of the age.

Old bards and thinkers could their wisdom tell,
In words of light which all might understand;
They had great things to say, and said them well,
To far-off ages of their listening land.

Such was old Milton, such was Bacon wise,
Such all the greatly good and nobly true;
High thoughts were theirs, kin to the boundless skies
But words translucent as the twilight dew.

Be ever like earth's greatest, truest, soundest,
Be like the prophets of the prophet-land;
Be like the Master, — simplest when profoundest;
Speak that thy fellow-men may understand.

Old streams of earth, sing on in happy choir!
Old sea, roll on your bright waves to the shore;
Tune, ancient wind, tune your still-cunning lyre,
And sing the simple song you sung of yore!

Dear arch of heaven, pure veil of lucid blue,
Star-loving hills, immoveable and calm,
Fresh fields of earth, and undefiled dew,
Chant, as in ages past, your glorious psalm!

I love the ringing of your child-like notes,
The music of your warm transparent song;
And my heart throbs, as blythely o'er me floats
Your endless echo, sweet and glad and young.

Your old is ever new; perpetual youth
Sits on your brow, a God-given heritage.
Even thus, in her fair ever-green, old Truth
Stands, without waste or weariness or age.

Unchanged in her clear speech and simple song,
Earth utters its old wisdom all around.
Ours be, like hers, a voice distinct and strong,
Speech as unmuffled, wisdom as profound.

All mystery is defect; and cloudy words
Are feebleness, not strength; are loss, not gain;
Men win no victories with spectre-swords;
The phantom barque ploughs the broad sea in vain.

If thou hast aught to say, or small or great,
Speak with a clear true voice; all mysteries
Are but man's poor attempts to imitate
The hidden wisdom of the Only Wise.

The day of Delphic oracles is past;
All mimic-wisdom is a broken reed,
The gorgeous mountain-mist rolls up at last,
Clouds quench no thirst, and flowers no hunger feed.