Classic Poem

I JOURNEY slowly down the hill,
Whereon the sunshine lingers still—
As one who goes against his will.

The vale below is dark and cold,
And fraught with mysteries untold,
Concealed beneath the green-grown mold.

The sluggish air is never stirred
By hum of bee or trill of bird,
Or human voice, in song or word.

The world goes on, or foul or fair,
But brings of all its joy and care
No tidings to the sleepers there.

They make no moan, they shed no tears,
They have no aims, no hopes, no fears,
No memory of the by-gone years.

They have no light of sun or moon;
No morning, eventide or noon;
No need of scrip or sandal-shoon.

Therefore, I journey down the hill,
Toward the valley, dark and still,
As one who goes against his will.

Faith says: O mortal! cease thy wail,
And look beyond the shadowy vale,
Where lie the sleepers cold and pale.

Beyond the realm of death and night—
Beyond thy feeble human sight,
There is a world of life and light.

The blessed dead, whom men deplore,
Are living on that radiant shore—
They only left the robes they wore.

“He who believes on me,” He said,
Whose precious blood for man was shed,
“Shall live again, though he were dead.”

“O Faith!” I cried, “though thou canst see
The glories of the life to be,
Death stands between its light and me.”