Classic Poem

Not that Saint Louis, who so long ago
Led the Crusaders on their fateful way
To strike, and strive, if haply they might win
The dear Christ's tomb from Saracenic sway.

Not him, but our Saint Louis, whom the world,
The great loud world, will never widely know, —
Safe folded in our hearts his memory lies,
Like sweetest mayflowers under winter's snow.

But he was more to us who knew him well,
And loved him for his simple, modest worth,
Than all the saints who died so long ago,
And left great names to quicken all the earth.

We never saw their faces strong and sweet;
We never heard their voices kind and low;
And never looked their eyes into our own
With such fond looks as only mothers know.

He left us in the golden summer-time,
His heart all hot with thoughts of joys to come,
Counting the hours ere he should taste again
The welcome beauty of his country-home.

Soon with its " all, so far, " his letter came,
To share his joy with dear ones left behind,
And then — oh, words so hard and strange and sad,
Though tender as the tenderest hearts could find!

Gone in the bloom and beauty of his youth!
His warm heart quenched by the remorseless stream!
Is it the truth? or shall we wake to find
That it is but the shadow of a dream?

Truth, and not truth; dead, and he liveth still;
Ay, and yet speaketh, and we hear him say,
" Though " this is all, so far," it is not all,
And we shall meet again some happy day. "