Classic Poem

Who does not love the tranquil mystery
Of twilight, when the day is almost spent;
Who welcomes not the sacred Sundays three
That usher in the sober fast of Lent!

One calls to temperance and self-control
And bids us yield whatever clogs or maims,
That we may win in contests of the soul
As strong Greek youths won in the Olympian games;

One shows Truth's tender seeds, in soft embrace
Of fertile soil spring up to leaf and flower;
Or, unbedewed by love, unsunned by grace,
Fail in unfriendly earth for want of power.

One points to where, securely throned on high
Above moralities, howe'er divine,
Sits god-like Love, pure-minded Charity,
And makes us gladly worship at her shrine;

All pave the way pressed long by Christian feet
From natural joy to that delightful shade
Where purple penitential flowers grow sweet,
And perfume all the air, and never fade.

O calm pre-Lenten days, your lessons deep
We would be taught; so God should give us mirth
For mourning, wake our souls from sluggish sleep,
And help us walk in heaven while yet on earth.