Classic Poem

Thou art not dead, thou couldst not die;
But thou art changed—from grief to joy:
Thy weakness now has put on strength;
Thy mortal, immortality.
That heart that throbbed with purest love,
That heart that thrilled with deepest woe,
Rests like a wanderer at home,
And beats with love and joy alone.
Thy life, like a bright vision passed,
Thy soul, the spirit of the dream:
Pleasure and pain, with ceaseless strife,
Contended for thy noble heart:
Sorrow oft spread her chilling pall
And darkened all thy sky;
Then joy, with her gay flashes, broke
The gloomy darkness sorrow spread.
There 's not a lovely transient thing
But brings thee to my mind:
The rainbow, or the blighted flower,
Sweet summer's fading joys,
The waning moon, the dying day,
The passing glories of the clouds,
The leaf that brightens as it falls,
The wild tones of the Æolian harp,—
All, tell some touching tale of thee:
There 's not a high or holy thought,
There 's not a tender, lovely thing,
But brings thee to my mind;
And faded hopes, and dying joys,
And the vexed spirit's silent strife,
All wake some thought of thee.
O no! thou art not dead, but changed;
From glory unto glory changed:
Corrupt now incorruption wears,
And mortal, immortality.