Classic Poem

I know it all,—the lift, the light, the peace,
That heavenward drew in eyes of Beatrice.
And not by courteous messenger her grace,—
Herself she came in her own blessed face.
In the Dark Wood of an uncertain will
She found me groping for the Sunlit Hill
I followed: mine no Dante-path of woe,
Nor terraces where painful pilgrims go.
She came,—the Dark Wood stirred with flower and breeze,
And bird-song trembled in the happy trees!
She came,—and Sunlit Hill, the Eunoe Fount,
The Earthly Paradise, were mine! Where she
With unreturning feet still comrades me;
And still the eyes that lift,—and still I mount!