Classic Poem

Not yet! Along the purpling sky
We see the dawning ray;
But leagues of cloudy distance lie
Between us and the day.

Not yet! The aloe waits serene
Its promised advent-hour,—
A patient century of green
To one full, perfect flower.

Not yet! No harvest song is sung
In the sweet ear of spring,
Nor hear we while the blade is young
The reaper's sickle swing.

Not yet! Before the crown, the cross;
The struggle, ere the prize;
Before the gain the fearful loss,
And death ere Paradise!