Classic Poem

I thank thee, Good Gray Poet, for thy book;
How much I prize it thou couldst only know
By knowing all the love I feel for thee,
And this is partly why: The land is full
Of wights who live by rhyme. They prate of art,
And, having no great message to the race,
Fill all the public prints with pretty verse.
Mere twittering sparrows they, that flit around
The sacred summit of old Helicon.
Sore sick of these, I ope thy book, and lo!
The twitterings cease and in their stead I hear
The voice of ancient forests and the seas,
That “first and last confession of the globe.”
Perhaps with thee I mourn the “unnam'd dead,”
And in my heart set up a monument
To all the heroes that have fought and failed.
And ever as I read, hope grows in me,
Hope like a bird that sings as cheerily
Amid a dreary waste of arctic snows
As though lush summer smiled and earth were gay.
Full oft I dream of mighty destinies
That wait our country, and I see her sons,
Her fierce athletic daughters and her sons,
The matchless hosts of perfect years to be,
Winning great victories in the fields of peace.
So this thy book is such a prize to me
As if a sailor, far inland, should find
A shell within whose tinted chambers dwelt
Old Neptune's grizzled wraith. What joy were his
To put its cool lips to his ear and list
The crooning moan and whistle of the sea!