Classic Poem

Lord, is it Thou? God, do I touch indeed
Thy raiment hem, that rolls like vapour dark?
O homeless Spirit, that fleest us in our need,
Pause! answer! while I kneel, remain and mark...
Father! ... Ere back they bear me, cold and stark,
Across Thy darken'd threshold, — ere I plead
For love no longer, pity me, and hark!
Surviving the long tale of craft and creed,
The dumb Hills gather round me, gaunt and gray, —
The Waters utter their monotonous moan, —
The immemorial Heavens, with no groan,
Bend dim eyes down, as on their natal day:
Cold are all these as snow, and still as stone;
But I have found a voice — to plead, to pray.