Classic Poem

He takes the glory from the gold
For consecration of the mould,
He strains his ears to the clouds' lips,
He sings the song they sang to him
And his brow dips
In amber that the seraphim
Have held for him and hold.

So shut in are our lives, so still,
That we see not of good or ill —
A dead world since ourselves are dead.
Till he, the master, speaks and lo!
The dead world's shed,
Strange winds, new skies and rivers flow
Illumined from the hill.