Classic Poem

O loose way of self, unbounding force,
In what way can we remember man?
As thou dost here forebode a source,
The stolen joys of saints untold a feign;
Reckless doom, who art thou to flower?
Where spearest thou us alone for hell?
I can no more fetter, chase or dower,
Thy moaning sack, unmoaned in, fell,
A breath of goodness dost thou cast
And yet sayeth natural a bow!
Thus makest thou us untrained a blend!