Classic Poem

I press not to the quire, nor dare I greet
The holy place with my unhallowed feet;
My unwashed Muse pollutes not things divine,
Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine;
Here humbly at the porch she listening stays,
And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays.
So devout penitents of old were wont,
Some without door and some beneath the font,
To stand and hear the Church's liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemn exercise:
Sufficeth her that she a lay-place gain,
To trim thy vestments or but bear thy train;
Though nor in tune nor wing she reach thy lark,
Her lyric feet may dance before the Ark.
Who knows but that her wandering eyes, that run
Now hunting glow-worms, may adore the sun?
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty Power
Into her breast, the earthy flame devour.
My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine which they for sensual love did weep.
So (though gainst Nature's course) fire may be quenched
With fire, and water be with water drenched.
Perhaps my restless soul--tired with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoyed,
Quenched all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloyed--,
Weary of her vain search below, above
In the first Fair may find th' immortal Love.
Prompted by thy example then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore,
But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What His blest Sp'rit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leaveless trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn,
Than all the flour'shing wreaths by laureates worn.