Classic Poem

THE FOLK

It is the coming of the night:
they gather to their homes; they light
the scanty flame and draw the chair
closer, and warmth enchants their care.

Another day is dead and they
have lived it not: such price they pay,
daily, to fend the hunger-dread,
that death may find them in safe bed.

Pale wretches! yet this hour at least
they spend, when yon dark hive releas'd,
in dreams that soar beyond the night
and cheer the heart to front the light:

for lo: each steadfast window-fire:
would you not say, tho' stars may tire
and the heavens age, man yet maintains
his watchfires o'er the homeless plains:

close worlds of love and hope that glow
more golden-soft, for that they know
that one undying fire in all
burns, and the march harks to one call.

— Nay, the poor hearts of dust are proud:
O wonderful! our might allow'd
of God; and lo! His empire come:
and night is vast above them, dumb.