Classic Poem

From a high place I saw the city
Open and bare below me spread,
And therein walked (O God of pity!)
Few living, many dead.

Dead men entombed in daily labors,
Grappling for gold in ghostly strife;
Dead neighbors chattering to dead neighbors;
And dead youth—seeing life.

Dead women decking lifeless bodies
(See, what a gay and lovely shroud!)
And in rich temples, where no God is,
Dead corpses, praying loud.

But, oh, my eyes were ever turning,
With joy and tender deep delight
To where, like stars in dark skies burning,
The living souls shone bright.

Where are her priestly hands preparing
Holy mother and happy wife?
Daily her humble home is sharing
The bread and wine of life.

The neighbors seek her fireside, telling
Of sacred sorrow, joyous plan;
And often quietly in her dwelling
Meet with the Son of Man.

See where the craftsman's last touch lingers
To draw the wonder from the wood,
As life and love, poured through his fingers,
Create and call it good
. . . . . .

Yonder a youth, afire with pity,
Cries in the press most passionately,
“Comrades, arise! and build a city
Fit dwelling for the free!”

He cries. The dead men pass. The pavement
Echoes his voice. Yet, if one stay,
Hope whispers that one opening grave meant
A resurrection day!

There a stern gray-haired prophet preaches
To proud pews full of dull and dead;
And there a gentle schoolma'am teaches
With glory round her head.

Many the dead, and few the living?
Yet see life springing everywhere—
Leaping from soul to soul, and giving
A pause to our despair.

And comes the wind of God's voice sweeping—
“Blind seer, behold again! for they,
Whom you called dead men, are but sleeping
And shall awake one day!”