Classic Poem

How easily men's cheeks are hot with wrath!
In haste, though sadly ignorant of the art,
The many judge the individual heart.
But every heart a secret chamber hath,
Thereto a door whose lock no key will turn.
What oil the lamp within that room doth burn
No man may know. But through the keyhole stream
Pale, slender rays of light, and by their gleam
We move about and wake, and fall asleep.
It leads us; to our journey's end we keep
Along the pathway pointed by its beam.