Classic Poem

Nay, thou hast ceased to be a poet: pride
Hath all displaced the heavenly gift within;
Music of soul can live with many a sin,
But will not with a haughty spirit bide.
A bard is one on whom, as in a shower,
Man's mighty deeds and lovely arts rain power;
One whose quick soul hath fetched another sense,
An inlet deep, where earth with her green things
Mounts in a tide of vast intelligence,
And mysteries that need interpretings.
Can they be proud, who walk across the earth,
Like fountains, shedding waters for the weary,
Casting up truths and symbols to give mirth
Unto the restless, light unto the dreary?