Classic Poem

How often, with the moment at a height
Of bafflement and effort too forlorn,
And my beleaguered spirit overborne,
Unfriended and at bay, in lonely fight,
Have I reached up, to grasp one shred of light
In needy hands; this book all human worn.
And felt the sun of some to-morrow morn
Fold my poor Present in its far, warm sight.

Ah, draught of rescue! Yet I do not need
To turn a leaf before that cordial glows
Through my discouraged veins, to warm, to wake, —
Too childish weary though I be, to read.
Just as a wayworn soul may say, " God knows!"
Here do I lean my cheek, for comfort's sake.