Classic Poem

They will come, at last they will come, who have not gone by:
The many that time and life have not yet defined.
Even now the sound of their tread is a cry
Moving along my mind.

They will come and like mist be blown down a shadowy street,
Even as others have come and were mistily blown.
They will move to music of unisoned feet,
Yet each, like others, alone.

Their eyes will be sharpened as eyes of the others were not;
They will see in the sun, hear more in the wind than sound.
They will feel in the cold crusts of earth the hot
Desires of the ground.

All that others have known of longing and pain
Will be immeasurably theirs; they must reckon and face
Rapture unknown, then pass like the rain
Drifting on into space.