Classic Poem

One breath of passion surging into song
Hath far more worth than philosophic dreams.
Why waste thine instrument on rugged themes,
Or by the tuneless fountains tarry long?
When thou art just thine own self, thou art strong,
But weak when for thine own heart's sunny gleams
Over and round thee the cold moonlight beams.
To thine own self thou doest the deadliest wrong!

If thou wouldst have thy soul's clear song abide
Changeless and endless in the hearts of men,
Sing thou of love,—never hath love-song died!
Sing thou of passion,—and be deathless then!
Sing of the sea's soul,—be thy soul as wide:
Its chant shall echo back thy chant again.