Classic Poem

Yet must there come a final triumph-time
When all the lower service is achieved;
When all love passes into joy sublime, —
Joy higher than our highest hopes conceived.
Then shall we be alone. The utmost air
Of heaven shall crown us, and our hearts shall sing
With strange joy, — subtle, spirit-thrilling, fair:
Above us both shall brood God's lonely wing.

Then shall I, seeking blossoms, find but thee;
Hear in thy voice the murmur of the sea:
Find all sweet gifts and tender of the air
Within thine heart, — for purest heaven is there: —
And, yearning towards God's summer in deep skies,
Verily find it! — deeper in thine eyes.