Classic Poem

Nay, this is Hope: a gentle dove,
That nestles in the gentle breast,
Bringing glad tidings from above
Of joys to come and heavenly rest.

And this is Life: ethereal fire
Striving aloft through smothering clay;
Mounting, flaming, higher, higher!
Till lost in immortality.

And Man — oh! hate not nor despise
The fairest, lordliest work of God!
Think not He made the good and wise
Only to sleep beneath the sod!