Classic Poem

Without I hear the beating of the rain,
The howling winds that tell the storm's increase;
O covert sure that he who seeks may gain!—
Within abideth peace!

Without I hear the sound of feet that halt,
And grope and stumble in the blinding light;
O blessed faith that serveth in default
Of what men call the light!

O rest, O wayside inn, where home is not
For the poor pilgrim to that city fair
Where strife shall cease and doubtings be forgot!
The Lamb, the Light is there!