Classic Poem

IT COMES at will, but not my will—
A moment of well-being:
From boding fear and bonding ill
There is a perfect freeing.

No inmost bough in windless woods,
No sylvan lake unbrushed by swallow,
No dewdrop where old shadow broods
And wasting noonday cannot follow,—
Could have of utter peace
Such an unbroken lease
As, at this moment, I—
So deep in peace I do not ask, or reason, why.

No hearkener to the chorded shell
That brought the Appollonian vision,
Nor saint whose prayer-encompassed cell
Gave, suddenly, on space elysian,—
Has been so wholly blest,
Of mortal so divest,
As, at this moment, I—
It is as one, if I should live, if I should die!

No pilgrim when the Mecca-goal
Unveiled to his rapt eyes and eager,
No lover whose keen-watching soul
At last saw ended Love's long leaguer,—
Knew rapture more supreme,
(Lord of his dearest dream)
Than, at this moment, I—
O Joy-with-Peace, in whose unfathomed depth I lie!