Classic Poem

“A T eve there shall be light,” the promise runs
In the dear volume that he loved so well;
Ay, and for him the promise was fulfilled,
When rang for him the solemn vesper-bell.

His was no day of sweet, unsullied blue,
And bright, warm sunshine on the grass and flowers;
But many a cloud of loss and grief and pain
Dropped its deep shadow on the fleeting hours.

Clear were his morning hours and calm and bright;
His sun shot up with upward fiery beam;
And men were glad and revelled in its light,
And leaped to welcome it from sleep and dream.

Then came a cloud and overshadowed him,
And chilled him with a presage as of death;
And never did it quite forsake his sky,
But sought him often with its eager breath.

For still, though hours were his serene and still,
And radiant hours of steady, glowing noon,
That cloud of pain was ever near to touch
With quivering sadness every brightest boon.

And as his afternoon drew on to eve
And still he lingered in the whitened field,—
The reapers were so few, till night should fall
Fain would his hand the heavy sickle wield,—

Darker it grew and darker o'er the land,
And he was forced to lay his sickle by;
But did it brighten, then his hand was quick
To seize once more its opportunity.

So the day faded, and the evening came;
Then from the sky the clouds were furled away,
And a great peace and beauty welcomed in
The evening star with her benignant ray.

And all the air was hushed and whispering,
And all the sky was purely, softly bright;
And so the blessed promise was fulfilled:
“At eve,” it said,—“at eve there shall be light.”

But that fair evening did not end in night,
With shadows deep and darkness all forlorn;
Just at its brightest he was snatched away
Into the golden palaces of morn.

And surely since the Master went that way,
To welcome there earth's holiest and best,
He has not welcomed one who loved him more
Than he who leaned that evening on his breast.