Classic Poem

To seek true rest and peace in wilds away,
It is not strange that men have fled the world
From all the storm and strife perpetual hurled
At the fair form of silence all the day;
For day and night do good and evil sway
In close-knit fight, as when the Titans twirled
And twisted in fierce combat: never furled
Is Satan's flag, blood-reddened in hell's ray.
And though Thy cross, dear Christ, shines ever bright,
And Thy sweet Mother downward bends her gaze,
And Thy high saints own us in brotherhood,—
Our souls are troubled, the world's wrong seems right,
Our sight is dim, we falter in the maze;
For all our evil seems so near our good.