Classic Poem

I

O THOU slight word, most like to breath , and made
Of a few letters merely, what's in thee,
Terrors of flesh, the spirit's ecstasy,
Mysterious, voiceless, shadow of a shade?
They that fear nothing else, of thee afraid,
Do call thee Sleep and Passing . Thou set'st free
Infinite shapes of all a man may be,
Yet at thy nothingness he shrinks dismayed.
If thou wert not, the Poets had been dumb,
And Music silent. Yea, majestic Art
Had never sought and found her better part
Nor by the living eyes betrayed the heart.
Great prophecy were an unmeaning hum,
What-is no longer holding what's-to-come.