Classic Poem

If thy weak, puny hand might reach away
And rend out lightnings from the clouds to-day,
At little pains, as, with a candle flame
Touching the flax upon my distaff here
Would fill the house with light, it were the same —
A little thing to do. It is the far
Makes half the poet's passion for the star,
The while he treads the shining dewdrop near.

Of mortal weaknesses I have my share —
Pining and longing, and the madman's fit
Of groundless hatreds, blindest loves, despair —
But in this rhymed musing I have writ
Of an infirmity that is not mine:
My heart's dear idol were not less divine
That no grave gaped between us, black and steep;
Though, if it were so, I could oversweep

Its gulf — all gulfs — though ne'er so widely riven;
Or from hot desert sands dig out sweet springs;
For I believe, and I have still believed,
That Love may even fold its milk-white wings
In the red bosom of hell, nor up to heaven
Measure the distance with one thought aggrieved.

Why should I tear my flesh, and bruise my feet,
Climbing for roses, when, from where I stand,
Down the green meadow I may reach my hand,
And pluck them off as well? — sweet, very sweet
This world which God has made about us lies, —
Shall we reproach him with unthankful eyes?