Classic Poem

When evening hangs her lamp above the hill
And calls her children to her waiting hearth,
Where pain is shed away and love and wrath,
And every tired head lies white and still —

Dear heart, will you not light a lamp for me,
And gather up the meaning of the lands,
Silent and luminous within your hands,
Where peace abides and mirth and mystery?

That I may sit with you beside the fire,
And ponder on the thing no man may guess,
Your soul's great majesty and gentleness,
Until the last sad tongue of flame expire.