Classic Poem

The wind, like mist of purple grain,
Arises o'er the Arab plain;
Strange constellations flashing soar
Above the dreadful Boreal shore
But never purple cloud I see
Swelling above immensity;
And never galaxy doth peer
Through the thick mists that wrap me here:
Hard is the way, shut is the gate,
And life is in a narrow strait.
Once only did my soul aspire
To scale the Orient dropping fire;
Once only floated in the ways
Of heaven apart form earthly haze:
And then it was a foolish soul,
And knew not how the heavens do roll.