Classic Poem

And, Wordsworth, yet, thy soul, in good-abounding,
Will brim a world-wide cup, with purest good,
And be to sever'd lands a saviour flood,
(Not the loud-sounding, but the eversounding!)
With wafted blessings lonest isles surrounding:
The gentle ripple, and its low, sad wind,
Have found materials which the wise shall find,
Broad cities of the just on all shores founding.
Grand is thy temple for the soul-freed slave,
“With its foundations laid beneath the grave!”
And safe the bud which thou “with dewdrops shieldest!”
Then, hymn not thou pomp's pagan-priests and stalls;
Doom'd statecraft's doom'd religion of stone walls!
Such things are cold dead rubbish, “where thou buildest.”