Classic Poem

From out the darkness cometh never a sound:
No voice doth reach us from the silent place:
There is one goal beyond life's blindfold race,
For victor and for victim — burial-ground.
O friend, revered, belov'd, mayst thou have found
Beyond the shadowy gates a yearning face,
A beckoning hand to guide thee with swift pace
From the dull wave Lethean gliding round.

Hope dwelt with thee, not Fear; Faith, not Despair:
But little heed thou hadst of the grave's gloom.
What though thy body lies so deeply there
Where the land throbs with tidal surge and boom,
Thy soul doth breathe some Paradisal air
And Rest long sought thou hast where amaranths bloom.