Classic Poem

O soul above my soul,
Who art myself and more—
The dream God gives to guide
From door to door,—

By thy averted brow
And wistful, grieved disdain
Teach thou this crying heart
To conquer pain:

When hungry passions wake
Wild tears within my breast
The lifting of thine eyes
Stills them to rest.

My eager hands would grasp
Desires fond and vain;
On the far hills a voice
Wakes to restrain.

O thou unnamed, austere,
Make strong thy tyranny,
That I may never more
Long to be free;

Else let my spirit go,
Unconscious of a choice,
Blown on by shifting winds,
Deaf to thy voice,

Until my life goes by
In joys more sharp than pain,
A core of wild sweet fire
And April rain.