Classic Poem

The low-voiced girls that go
   In gardens of the Lord,
Like flowers of the field they grow
   In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white
   Along the leafy ways;
They go in whirls of light
   Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth
   Is one to set me free --
The one that touched my youth --
   The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire
   Whereby the gods survive --
The white ideal fire
   That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour,
   She leaves her star supreme,
And comes in the night's still power,
   To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery
   On roads unknown to men,
Softly she comes to me,
   And goes to God again.