Classic Poem

Idling one day in June, my aimless feet,
Forbidden, crossed the threshold of that fane
By grateful Harvard built for her dear slain,
Whom Freedom counted for her service meet.

Above me rose the glorious sheaf of towers,
As on the snowy tablets, slow, I read
The names of all the generous-hearted dead,
Who were our chivalry's most perfect flowers.

There were the names of men whom all the land
Hailed as the greatest in those dreadful days;
There, too, their names whose only meed of praise
Was the deep sense of doing God's command.

And one I read, which oft I used to speak
In loving-wise, as friend doth speak with friend:
Brave, ardent spirit! wheresoever tend
Thy restless feet, thou dost the highest seek.

And, as I gazed, with dimmer sight I saw
Upon rude stagings high above my head
The workmen painting words that shall be read
Through countless years of Liberty and Law; —

Resounding words of that melodious tongue
Which still doth with the pomp of Virgil swell;
But nought of all their meaning could they tell,
Who on the wall their various colors flung.

And some there were who worked in sombre hues,
While others bravely did illuminate
With red and gold some word of greater weight;
But all alike the meaning all did lose.

Behold, I thought, a parable of those
Whose names are graven on these tablets cold;
They did their work, yet little could have told
Of meanings vast which only Heaven knows.

Behold, I thought, a parable of all
Who do men's work upon this mortal strand;
Great meanings which they cannot understand,
They paint and grave on Time's memorial wall.

There are who work in colors dull and cold;
There are who work in characters of flame:
It matters not, the glory is the same;
For only thus the tale is fitly told,

Which He can read who builds all seas above,
So strong that nothing can destroy or mar,
In every sun, in every circling star,
The everlasting temple of His love.