Classic Poem

Thine be the last thought and the best, and thine
These few, poor, fluttering words, and thine the whole
Of life, that in the quiet of the soul,
Stirs through the muteness of the Heart Divine.

And in its silence, overwrought with song,
Where, through the curtained chambers of the mind,
The soul of thought, in solitude enshrined,
Unutterable dwells, and pure and strong,

Thy royal heart shall cross the wide-eyed dawn
Alone, and find the unspoken thing I am
Waiting for none but thee behind the sham
Of rhymed words where the poem's self is born.