Classic Poem

Father on Earth, for whom I wept bereaven,
Father more dear than any Father in Heaven,
Flesh of my flesh, heart of this heart of mine,
Still quick, though dead, in me, true son of thine,
I draw the gravecloth from thy dear dead face,
I kiss thee gently sleeping, while I place
This wreath of Song upon thy holy head.

For since I live, I know thou art quick not dead,
And since thou art quick, yet drawest no living breath,
I know, dear Father, that there is Life in Death.

This, too, my Soul hath found — that if there were
No hope in Heaven, the world might well despair,
That thro' the mystery of my hope and love
I reach the Mystery that dwells above ...
Father on Earth, still lying calm and blest
After long years of trouble and sad unrest,
Sleep, — while the Christ I paint for men to see
Seeketh the Fatherhood I found in thee!

Come, Faith, with eyes of patient heaven-ward gaze!
Come, Hope, with feet that bleed from thorny ways!
With hand for each, leading those twain to me,
Come with thy gifts of grace, fair Charity!
Bring Music too, whose voices trouble so
Our very footfalls as we graveward go,
Whose bright eyes, as she sings to Humankind,
Shine with the glory of God which keeps them blind!
Not to Parnassus, nor the Fabled Fount,
Nor to the folds of that Diviner Mount
Whereon our Milton kneeling prayed so deep, —
But hither, to this City stretched asleep
In silence, to this City of souls bereaven,
I call you, gracious hierophants of Heaven!
Come, Muses of the bleeding heart of Man,
Fairer than all the Nine Parnassian,
Fairer and clad in grace more heavenly
Than those sweet visions of Man's infancy,
Come from your lonely heights with song and prayer
To inspire an epos of the World's despair!
For lo, to that White Light which floweth from Him
Before whose gaze all sense and sight grow dim,
Holpen by you, His Angels pure and strong,
With tears I raise this tremulous Prism of Song!
O shine thereon, White Light, and melted be
Into the hues that lose themselves in Thee,
And tho' they are broken and but faintly show
Hints of the ray no sight may see or know,
On the poor Song let some dim gleam remain
To prove that Light Divine is never sought in vain!