Classic Poem

Nor, though she seem to cast with backward hand
Strange measure, sunny cold or cloudy heat,
Or break with stamping rain the farmer's wheat,
Yet in such waste no waste the soul descries,
Intent to glean by barrenest sea and land.
For whoso waiteth, long and patiently,
Will see a movement stirring at his feet—
If he but wait nor think himself much wise.
Nay, from the mind itself a glimpse will rest
Upon the dark; summoning from vacancy
Dim shapes about his intellectual lamp,
Calling these in and causing him to see;
As the night-heron waking in the swamp
Lights up the pools with her phosphoric breast.