Classic Poem

Thou art not dead. Still, as I wait and listen,
Comes the weird influence of thy radiant eyes,
And like a lone flower trembling to the night-wind
My full heart thrills to hear thy low replies.

Thou art not dead. Still, in the sober twilight
I sit with folded hands the while there comes
Thine image through the dim and flickering fire-light
With saintly lustre lightening all the glooms.

Thou'rt with me always. When the watchful Midnight
Stands by my lonely window, crowned with stars,
Thy fingers, O adored and strange magician,
Ope the dark dungeon that my spirit bars;

And taking in thine own my hands confiding,
Beneath clear skies, beside clear shining streams
Where deathless voices soft and low are singing,
The long night through we walk the world of dreams.

Day with its thousand cares around me presses;
Night with its thousand memories shuts me in;
Life with its dangers and its dark distresses
Threatens with sorrow or invites to sin;

But girding on anew my daily burthen,
With patient spirit whence no doubts arise,
Remembering all thy tender, holy counsel
I tread the way that leads me to the skies.

There where no frowning fortresses are builded,
There, where no pilgrim feet are tired and torn,
We side by side will roam the heavens together
Shod with the sandals by the immortal worn.