Classic Poem

On Hell's high gates to thunder,
Befallen to crown and kiss
To strengthen the sick one: this is good,
But the glory of good is this.

When over the stern soul-battle
Breaks, like a music-bar
The name of him we need not save,
Whose soul is strong as a star.

Who goeth his own way ever,
Whose peace on earth shall abide,
Whose heart is straight and shining and true,
As the steel sword at the side.

Blessed is he, yea blessed
Happy is he to be born,
Who has not gone in the gates of sin,
Or sat in the seat of scorn.

Whose face was bent to the furrow,
Who ate not the fruit where it hung
On the twilight tree and did not know
The best and the worst too young.

This is the worker's blessing
The world's first viols played
A flutter of robes and faces
A heaven and earth new made.

I will sing of the great archangel,
And the dead Christ hung on tree,
But the great strange song of the second youth,
Is a song too high for me.