Classic Poem

There was a youth
Who claimed a fancy,
And when he began to sing
This lore would from him spring:

“Who made the heavens
That drifted colors dry?
Who feeds this dew
That daily must be high?
What stain is this
That shines the tale of light?—
And this realm called night—
What wrought this space
And the windy flurries that sing—
And who built the spirit
From which this love doth spring?”