Classic Poem

Praise to thee, gentle friar, John of the Cross!
The body was the only living thing
Whereof thou hadst not pity: thou dist wring
Its Frailty till it knew not thorns from moss.

Above where this mean world's vexations toss,
Thou art a flame on Carmel; thou'rt a wing
Thyself of contemplation; thou dost fling
All pediments aside; thy wealth is loss.

Thine ecstacy demands the utmost night,
Wherein to espy the Lover's glimmering light;
Thy dearest hope abandonment of men,

Whereby to know the beauty beyond ken.
Sweet lilies mark the desert thou hast trod.
The steep of Carmel traced thy path to God.