Classic Poem

I

Song, be my soul; set forth the fairest part
Of all that moved harmonious through my heart;
And gather me to your arms; for we must go
To childhood's garden when the moon is low
And over the leaf-shadow-latticed grass
The whispering wraiths of my dead selves repass.

Soul, be my song; return arrayed in white;
Lead home the loves that I have wronged and slain:
Bring back the summer dawns that banished night
With distant-warbling bird-notes after rain . . .
Time's way-worn traveller I. And you, O song,
O soul, my Paradise laid waste so long.