Classic Poem

This is the secret; no fair blossom blows,
No cloud sails softly down the sunlit sky,
No clear dusk-shadowed stream goes sweetly by,
No singer lifts his voice in song that glows,
No sower of all these, unless he sows
For thee, scatters his seed; yea, all is thine;
With this wide world enclothéd shalt thou shine;
The morning girds thy brow; the virgin vows
Of untouched thoughts nod their long plumes for thee,
The dim sad past waits for thy harvest-hand,
The footless future spreads its sun-path lost;
On oceans smooth or rough no keel has crossed,
Under star-shine no eyes have seen, through bland
Plains of new flowerage, see, Fate beckons, see!