Classic Poem

Pessimist.

The world grows dark. — The poet's heart is dreaming;
But when he wakes from sleep,
Will he not see proud War's red harvest gleaming
Beneath white moons that weep?

Will he not understand the bitter anguish
Of all things here below?
Will he not mark the flowers and green leaves languish,
The sweet loves fade and go?

Will he not learn that God dwells at a distance,
Far past the reach of prayer?
Will he not teach, and teach with stern insistence,
That love is light as air?

Nay, still, in spite of all, my faith grows stronger
The more I live and see.
I cannot reach God? God can take the longer
Star-road and search out me.

If woman's sometimes frail, she's oftener faithful.
Although the dark air rings
With many a threat and trembles at the wrathful
Red lightning's jagged wings,

I have the unchanged high faith that at the portal
No man's foot yet hath trod
Wait, — deathless, grand-eyed, loving and immortal, —
Woman and God.