Classic Poem

The vast cathedral-crown of the high hill,
The long, low-vaulted nave, the transepts where
The light is glory shed through windows rare
In rainbow tintings: glory deep and still,
Gift of a past forever present there!

Beyond the lantern, the carved Gothic Choir,
And, as interpreting the hallowed place
Athrob with harmonies, a boyish face —
English, yet with the look of awed desire
Which speaks America, — the younger race.

In the half parted lips without a smile,
In the whole rapt, impassioned gaze,
I read the travail of the distant days,
The wistful hunger of the Long Exile —
The yearning that survives through all delays:

I read thy soul, my Country! thou dear Land
Across the deep and all-dividing sea!
I read thy soul and theirs who founded thee
With sacrifices few could understand —
Renouncing and enduring silently.

And I perceived that thou hast still retained
Their strength to toil, their courage to resist:
That seeking ardently whate'er they missed,
Thou hast remained — in spite of all, remained —
That which they made thee — an idealist!

And once again I felt how blest it is
To hunger and to thirst: anew I saw
That by eternal high-appointed law,
Sublimity and beauty most are his
In whom they move the deepest thrill of awe!