Classic Poem

I ask not when my skies are clear
That greys shall never gloom their arch;
No fruitage comes till clouds appear
And over wide horizons march;
But be my skies of faith alway
As clear as noon of summer day.

I pray not that my path shall lie
In flowery meads beside the sea;
I'd build upon the mountains high
White towers of immortality;
I only ask that I may know
The roads on which my feet should go.

And when each day my toils are done,
Ere this white chrysalis shall break,
Released to roads of light and sun,
May I that raptured life partake
Which from its veils of vast surmise
Shall burst to freedom of the skies.