Classic Poem

What will you fashion out of the years to come,
Hands, little hands that reach and cling to my breast?
Will you carry the torch I light with a flaming prayer—
Will you cling to the dream that wounds with a wild unrest?

All of my faith is forged in the sword you bear,
Surely you will not fail in the splendid quest.
Better the mark of nails than the empty palm—
Hands, little hands that reach and cling to my breast!