Classic Poem

Oh ! say you so, bold sailor
—In the sun-lit deeps of sky!
Dost thou so soon the seed-time tell
—In thy imperial cry,
As circling in yon shoreless sea
—Thine unseen form goes drifting by?

I cannot trace in the noon-day glare
—Thy regal flight, O crane!
From the leaping might of the fiery light
—Mine eyes recoil in pain,
But on mine ear, thine echoing cry
—Falls like a bugle strain.

The mellow soil glows beneath my feet,
—Where lies the buried grain;
The warm light floods the length and breadth
—Of the vast, dim, shimmering plain,
Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill
—Of the birth-time's restless pain.

On weary wing, plebeian geese
—Push on their arrowy line
Straight into the north, or snowy brant
—In dazzling sunshine, gloom and shine;
But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry,
—At thy majestic height
On proud, extended wings sweep'st on
—In lonely, easeful flight.

Then cry, thou martial-throated herald!
—Cry to the sun, and sweep
And swing along thy mateless, tireless course
—Above the clouds that sleep
Afloat on lazy air—cry on! Send down
—Thy trumpet note—it seems
The voice of hope and dauntless will,
—And breaks the spell of dreams.