Classic Poem

O SOUL of all souls whitest, what needst thou
Of solemn masses who with angel choirs
Dost chant enraptured thy most pure desires,
And to the heavenly will, as erst on earth, dost bow?
What can I ask for thee, in halting prayers
Heavy with grief, that could increase thy bliss?
What in thy perfectness can be amiss
Who grewest to angelhood all unawares?
Rather pray thou for me. And when ye stand,
Making petition, folding wing on wing,
Drooping your eyes before the glory-light,
Think if thou mayst on him who, wandering
Along the lower way, hath lost thy hand,
Yet seeketh for thy footprints day and night.