Classic Poem

Nought breaks the high majestic calm of Art:
Not storm, nor shipwreck, nor the angry sea,
Nor clouds wherethrough the thunders charge and flee,
Nor sounds whereat the stricken nations start.—
Art sits within her temple, sorrow-free,
Unmoved and silent. When mad armies march,
Her soft eyes watch the far-stretched rainbow arch
Or tuft of furze coquetting with the bee.

All these things move her not.—Yet can she wake,
Alive and breathless, all her heart on fire,
Her swift hand seeking her forgotten lyre:
Alice! one word of thine hath power to make
Art's sweet lips tremble,—as the unruffled lake
Breaks into ripples at the wind's desire.