Classic Poem

With sharp white teeth the mountains tore his shroud
To learn his secret in their brutal way;
They hid his bones behind an ashen cloud—
Stone doors might yield to Christ again some day!
But some of him goes walking on their heights,
I know not if it be his flesh or bones—
His flesh, snow-white, and cold to man's delights,
His bones, like startled wind against loose stones.

He is a pale unhappy thing that lives
Yet has no life. Dead, he knows not death, yet
Mocks at shadows, the imprisoned sun.
As that lean bitter corpse the moon forgives
No sin, his deathless hate forgives no debt.
Spool of hope spun by Christ. By Christ unspun.