Classic Poem

No hope in life; yet is there hope
In death, the threshold of man's scope:
Man yearneth (as the heliotrope

For ever seeks the sun) thro' light
Thro' dark for Love: all read aright
Is Love for Love is infinite.

Shall not this infinite Love suffice
To feed thy dearth? Lift heart and eyes
Up to the hills, grow glad and wise.

The hills are glad because the sun
Kisses their round tops every one
Where silver fountains laugh and run:

Smooth pebbles shine beneath; beside
The grass, mere green, grows myriad-eyed
With pomp of blossoms veined or pied.

So every nest is glad whereon
The sun in tender strength has shone;
So every fruit he glows upon;

So every valley depth, whose herds
At pasture praise him without words;
So the winged extasies of birds.

If there be any such thing, what
Is there by sunlight betters not? —
Nothing except dead things that rot.

Thou then who art not dead and fit
Like blasted tree beside the pit
But for the axe that levels it,

Living show life of Love, whereof
The force wields earth and heaven above:
Who knows not Love begetteth Love? —

Love in the gracious rain distils;
Love moves the subtle fountain rills
To fertilize uplifted hills

And seedful vallies fertilize;
Love stills the hungry lion's cries
And the young raven satisfies;

Love hangs this earth in space; Love rolls
Fair worlds rejoicing on their poles
And girds them round with aureoles;

Love lights the sun; Love thro' the dark
Lights the moon's evanescent arc;
Same Love lights up the glow-worm's spark;

Love rears the great; Love tends the small;
Breaks off the yoke, breaks down the wall;
Accepteth all, fulfilleth all.

O ye who taste that Love is sweet,
Set waymarks for the doubtful feet
That stumble on in search of it.

Sing hymns of Love, that those who hear
Far off in pain may lend an ear
Rise up and wonder and draw near.

Lead lives of Love, that others who
Behold your lives may kindle too
With Love and cast their lots with you.