Classic Poem

And yet if thou dost meet it not alone,
That weird grey morning over mountains blue
May be more sweet than thy soul ever knew
Or dreamed,—and lovelier than has yet been shown
To heart of poet which with pang and groan
Has struggled from old pain to suffering new.
When that last awful “grey dawn” thrills us through
Shall love not speak with mastering trumpet-tone?

Shall love not turn the “grey dawn” into gold
And touch the mountain-summits as with fire,
Uplifting from each peak and rocky spire
The vestments of the morning, fold by fold?
May not death's tide of pure delight flow higher
Than living heart hath dreamed or tongue hath told?