Classic Poem

Because thy face is more compassionate
Than God's own angel Pity, he who stands
Above the world with healing in his hands,
Early and late,
Therefore I dare to ask a little thing.
Though unto thee no man is small or great,
The humblest beggar, the anointed king
Of one estate,
Yet, O, how often, often on thy breast
The little children rest,
Feeling thy sombre arms about them close
As twilight folds a rose;
So, even I this little prayer dare bring
Unto thy pitying.

I pray thee find me not my hour to go
Closed within any dwelling men have made—
Those four poor walls where I may crouch, afraid
As from a foe;
But seek me on my hills, my hills whereon
The free winds drift and blow,
Between the green and gold of earth and sun,
Ah, find me so!
I would not quite forget, in some new birth,
The joy of this my earth,
Nor lose what time I look on Paradise,
The vision in my eyes
Of green boughs swaying in a singing wind—
O Azrael, be kind!