Classic Poem

If not a plume may vanish out of air,
If all things living stand,
But by a will, and that withheld, we were
Less than a shifting sand —
Where in our being has the god its hold?
Where is the burning hand?

Where does the might that holds our frailty
Lie hidden? Oh, somewhere
A light shows where the hand is laid, will lead
Us by some lustrous stair
To find the god, take the invisible hand
And tread the starry air!