Classic Poem

Friend ! desert not thou the Muse!
Shun not—scorn not her control!
Thou the yellow dross may'st lose,
But thou 'lt gain the wealth of soul.
What is gold, unless it bring
More than gold has ever brought?
What is gold, if to it cling
Narrower vision, meaner thought?

They who bid us bend the spirit
To a base or poor desire,
Little know what they inherit
Who unto the skies aspire.
Let them (if the body claim
All their sordid hope and care,)
Leave the poet to his fame,
His shadowy joy,—his finer air.

Some there be, who feel no pain,
So the baser roark they shun,
Shouting, when their end they gain,
“Joy is joy,—however won.”
To us diviner dreams are given;
To us a sweet-voiced angel sings,
“What were Earth without its Heaven?—
The Soul without its wings?”