Classic Poem

Weary of life? But what if death
To new confusion bids?
Who knows if labor ends with breath,
Or tears with folded lids?

The spirit still may miss of rest,
Though oft the daisies blow
Above the hushed and darkened breast
Shut close from sun and snow.

Those halls, all curiously planned,
Lie void, but whither thence
Hath fled the tenant? Shall the wand
Of peace her dews dispense

In equal share to hearts that beat
Undaunted till the even,
And rebels whose unbidden feet
Would storm the heights of heaven?

Perchance no soul shall taste of sleep
Until its task be sped.
The charge the living failed to keep
Goes over to the dead.

One perfect and mysterious Will
Threads all this mortal maze,
And calls each human voice to fill
Harmonic note of praise.

The shadowy, as the sunlit hours,
That holy Will confess.
Death holds no secret slumber-bowers
For our unfaithfulness.

Then while the morning still is fair,
The earth-winds o'er thee play,
Speed on the Master's work, and bear
The burden of thy day.

Ay, welcome each new toil and pain,
The fiery angels sent
To teach our harps their golden strain
While yet in banishment;

Lest e'en for thee, whose steps may roam
Far in some tangled glade,
When all the sons of God flock home,
The feast should be delayed.

For, oh! too long, too long we fare
Without our Father's gate.
“Thy kingdom come!” is all our prayer,
And still it cometh late.

Not wrath, dear Lord, Thy mercy seals.
Our own unrighteous hands
Hold back Thy shining chariot-wheels,
And rob the wistful lands.

For none shall walk in perfect white
Till every soul be clean;
So close for sorrow and delight
These human spirits lean.

But thou go forth and do thy deed,
In forest and in town,
Nor sigh for ease, while pain and need
Are plucking at thy gown.

And thus, when bitter turneth sweet,
And every heart is blest,
Perchance to thee God's hand shall mete
His unimagined rest.