Classic Poem

The last lone Sabbath candle sheds
Its light as pure as Torah;
Three other wicks as black as night
Lie spent in the Menorah.

Without, the darkness gathers thick;
The window panes are frozen—
“Oh, God, let not for my last breath
A pall of gloom be chosen.

“On me a mother's tears were shed
One evening of each seven;
So gather up my dying flame
And build a star in heaven.”