Classic Poem

It lies there now an ingot black and cold, —
The iron which erewhile, a swift white stream,
Poured with a starry, multitudinous gleam
Out of the furnace to the furrowed mould.

So seethed a hot wave in the poet's heart,
Broke out, and in constraining form was set.
The metal, with good luck, may ring, and yet,
Alas! poor wave, how hard and cold thou art.

Still, be the metal good, mankind will have
That which within another's heart again,
Deep-heated by the flames of joy and pain,
May melt and be once more a living wave.