Classic Poem

Past all pain for ever,
Done with sickness now;
Let me close thine eyes, mother,
Let me smooth thy brow.
Rest and health and gladness, —
These thy portions now;
Let me press thy hand, mother,
Let me kiss thy brow.

Eyes that shall never weep,
Life's tears all shed,
Its farewells said, —
These shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that they were mine!

A brow without a shade,
Each wrinkle smoothed,
Each throbbing soothed,
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

A tongue that stammers not
In tuneful praise,
Through endless days,
That shall be thine!
All well with thee.
O would that it were mine!

A voice that trembles not;
All quivering past,
Death's sigh the last, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

Limbs that shall never tire,
Nor ask to rest,
In service blest, —
These shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that they were mine!

A frame that cannot ache;
Earth's labors done,
Life's battle won, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

A heart that flutters not;
No timid throb,
No quick-breathed sob, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

A will that swerveth not
At frown or smile,
At threat or wile, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

A soul still upward bent
On higher flight,
With wing of light, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

Hours without fret or care;
The race well run,
The prize well won, —
These shall be thine?
All well with thee;
O, would that they were-mine!

Days without toil or grief;
Time's burdens borne
With strength well-worn, —
These shall be thine.
All well with thee;
O, would that they were mine!

Rest without broken dreams,
Or wakeful fears,
Or hidden tears,
That shall be thine;
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

Life that shall fear no death,
God's life above,
Of light and love, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee;
O, would that it were mine!

Morn that shall light the tomb,
And call from dust
The slumbering just, —
That shall be thine!
All well with thee
O, would that it were mine!