Classic Poem

You who were beauty's worshipper,
Her ardent lover, in this place
You have seen Beauty face to face;
And known the wistful eyes of her,
And kissed the hands of Poverty,
And praised her tattered bravery.

You shall be humble, give your days
To silence and simplicity;
And solitude shall come to be
The goal of all your winding ways;
When pride and youthful pomp of words
Fly far away like startled birds.

Possessing nothing, you shall know
The heart of all things in the earth,
Their secret agonies and mirth,
The awful innocence of snow,
The sadness of November leaves,
The joy of fields of girded sheaves.

A shelter from the driving rain
Your high renouncement of desire;
Food it shall be and wine and fire;
And Peace shall enter once again
As quietly as dreams in sleep
The hidden trysting-place you keep.

You shall grow humble as the grass,
And patient as each slow, dumb beast;
And as their fellow — yea the least —
Yield stoat and hedgehog room to pass;
And learn the ignorance of men
Before the robin and the wren.

The things so terrible and sweet
You strove to say in accents harsh,
The frogs are croaking on the marsh,
The crickets chirping at your feet —
Oh, they can teach you unafraid
The meaning of the songs you made.

Till clothed in white humilities,
Each happening that doth befall,
Each thought of yours be musical,
As wind is musical in the trees,
When strong as sun and clean as dew
Your old dead songs come back to you.