Classic Poem

The wind has borne them away, the light has drawn them,
New songs have gladdened their life in its dayspring
And I am left, a tender dove forgotten,
Beneath the Shechinah wing.

Alone, alone I am left. The Shechinah too
Her broken wing holds trembling o'er my head.
My heart discerns her heart; surely for me,
Her only son, is her dread.

From every corner she is driven forth,
Save one obscure and desolate recess —
The Beth Hamidrash — there in the shadows hid
I am with her in distress.

And when I yearn for the casement, toward the light,
Beneath her wing I am cramped as in a cage,
She droops her head on my shoulder, and her tears
Fall on my Talmud page.

Softly she weeps o'er me, to me doth cling,
And shades me over with her broken wing;
" The wind has borne them away; they all have flown,
And I am left alone. "

It is the closing of an ancient dirge,
That silent weeping, like a prayer I hear
That supplication is and adoration;
I see that scalding tear.