Classic Poem

We cannot walk thus lampless; Thought alone
Can find the clew out from this maze's turns;
Our faith and love wherewith our body burns
End but in darkness silent as a stone;
For love hath end, and by our sorrow's moan
Our truths are slain, and our great grieving spurns
Our past belief, and all our labor earns,
Despite tears shed, and without harvest sown,
No space wherein to lay fore-wearied limbs;
The light of Life shines but where Thought most pure
Communes with those fixed idealities
Whose mastery weaves our tumults into hymns
Of rarest sound, whose empire shall endure
Till Death lays hands on God's own mysteries.