Classic Poem

Rare bells are they that form the Sonnet's chime,
Swinging within the poet's open soul
As in a belfry, from which grandly roll
Heart-melodies, entrancing or sublime.
In star-shine or in storm, time after time,
Steal out invisible, in misty stole,
The winged Thoughts and speed from pole to pole,
While sounds some golden, sweet, recurrent rhyme.

The Sonnet's chime is lofty, pure, and strong;
Who rings it must climb patiently the stair,
Winding about, past windows looking far.
Then one may ring so as to fright a Wrong,
Or call a wandering soul to suppliant prayer,
Or send Love's thrilling cry from star to star.