Classic Poem

And yet what a joy is thine, O Peter,
The joy to be ever learning!
No lips of a maiden love are sweeter
Than light on Truth's first morning.

And dwellest thou not in that soul's aurora
The Gates of the East thy station?
No shadows behind, clear sheen before thee
A hop'd, not come, Revelation!

Thou rather, as Poets deign of Apollo,
Bright Young-one (graybearded, ragged)
The wheels of the Sun dost ever follow
(Not driving indeed, yet dragged).