Classic Poem

Out of my little prison-cell
I send white thoughts and bid them tell
My message to my kind.
The singing wind can bear it best,
For song it should be—glad song, blest
To beauty by the wind.

O white thoughts, this it is ye mean:
“We, born in pain have breathed and been
Nurtured of suffering;
Have heard all silence, lost all light,
Have touched the unknown Infinite
Of fear; and still we sing:

“‘Night holds a holy mystery
Of life; red pain is wine, and we
Have drunk so deep thereof
That we are strangely healed of fear,
Strong even through weakness, new-born, near
The inner founts of love.’

“O we knew nothing of the way
When pain became our guide that day—
We assailed him with our fears;
But out upon the weary road,
Bearing his load, we learned the load
Was lighter than our fears.

“And kinder than our cries was pain,
And whiter than our dream his stain.
And fairer and more free
Cell-walls than world-walls, though world-wide,
If love enshackled, hope close-tied,
Joy unconceivéd be.

“Lo, this was granted unto us:
We know not if all men learn thus
From suffering.”
O wind,
Out of my little prison-cell
Take my white thoughts and let them tell
My message to my kind.