Classic Poem

Lo! the poet sings to roses
And the hours of summer days:
In the woods his heart reposes
Where the white-armed nymph delays:
He may watch the chaste adorning
Of the golden-haired sweet morning,
Unrebuked for ardent gaze.

Through his heart storm strife and anguish;
All his soul is racked with pain;
Often through long hours that languish
Must he garner song's red grain:
Thou , — thou hast no heart to suffer;
When the surges' heads grow rougher
Thou in harbour dost remain!

When the great seas' hoary splendour
Shines beneath the grey low sky,
Thou art vanquished: when the tender
Flakes of rainbow-froth soar high,
Thou art safe in inland region;
Though the forms of gods were legion,
Storm-tossed, thou wouldst not be nigh.

What knowest thou of woman's passion,
Pedant with the mincing tread?
Woman loves not in thy fashion;
Not for thee the rose is red:
Not for thee divine emotion
Yearns forth, rippling like the ocean, —
Thou, alive, art worse than dead.

Thou to teach us, thou to reach us
With thy simpering silly ways!
Thou to impugn us and impeach us!
Thou to chisel and chip our lays!
Thou to teach us love's true beauty
And to point towards path of duty, —
What damnation were thy praise!