Classic Poem

Give me back, give me back the rare gift of my childhood,
With its vision unclouded by mundane affairs,
When I pictured the Master, the great loving Father,
Keeping watch from the Heavens absorbed by our cares —
Arms outstretched to enfold us, benignantly beaming —
O, to fly to His bosom, there fondly to rest!
Could aught be more beautiful, aught more in dreaming,
Than on pinions of rapture to be borne with the blest,
There to dwell in His garden with bright love-lights gleaming,
And consoled and content — sink to sleep on His breast?

But now I am old, and my vision is failing,
And the weight of the great, vast unknown oppresses
My soul with its gravity; I cling to the paling —
But I grope to regain the lost visions possessed,
To restore to my soul the dear God of my childhood,
Whose pleasure it is to relieve the oppressed.