Classic Poem

My son, where is thy soul?
" Wander on earth to seek it, angel of mine!
For there is a leafy village, walled by the woods,
With boundless azure firmament above,
And in the blue there rests its daughter fair —
A small white cloud and lone.
A child plays there alone on a summer morn,
Left to himself, a tender dreaming mite;
Angel, that child am I.

The world had wrapped itself away, so still,
And heavenwards the child's two eyes were drawn,
Forth went his soul, as a dove flies from its cote
To the sweet cloud in the sky. "

And did it melt away?
" There is a sun in the world, angel of mine,
Its kindly golden rays have saved my soul
Which danced for man a day on wings of light
As a white butterfly.
One morn it rode astride a golden ray,
To seek a gem of dew among the grass;
But a clear, unsullied tear upon my cheek
Trembled, the sunray shook, down fell my soul
And sank within the tear. "

Dried it to nothing? — " Nay;
It lighted on a holy Talmud page,
My grandad's vellum Talmud, fingered much,
And in its womb — two hairs of his white, beard,
With threads of Tsitsith torn from Arba Kanfoth,
And many a trace of candle grease and wax;
Within this Talmud and its letters dead
My soul beat round alone. "

And was it strangled? — " Nay;
For it beat round and sang, angel of mine!
My songs poured forth to life in those dead letters
All kinds of songs — About a small bright cloud;
Of Tsitsith torn, about the drops of wax;
But one song was unknown — of youth and love.
It strove to leave, it sighed, no comfort found,
And listless, pined away in woe to death.
One day I visited my musty Talmud.
My soul had flown from there!

Lo! It roams and wanders o'er the world,
Wanders, straying, with no comfort found;
On bashful nights, when the new month is born,
And all pray that the moon fill up her round,
It beats its wings against the gale of Love,
Beating, knocking, weeping — ah, so soft,
And all for love its prayer... "