Classic Poem

In memory of Alice Gordon Gulick

Behold the drooping clouds, yon pallid strips
Above the purple hills, at evening hush
Are flooded with a sudden roseate gush
Of splendor from the sinking sun, that dips
Even now below our mortal ken and slips
To his appointed rest, — a wondrous rush
Of some bright ecstasy, some refluent flush
Of triumph, some divine apocalypse.
So as the shadows of our sorrow bend
Above the setting of that life whose course
Illumined darkness to its utmost goal,
Through our grey grief may such fine flame ascend,
Such glowing benediction from the force
Of that celestial fire, her martyr-soul.