Classic Poem

… The child? Ah! she will see
Beyond that turning, past that gate or tree,
The mother—sobs will cease;
For her wild grief will change to perfect peace.

For her the sunset heavens will clear;
The purple clouds that threatened came not near:
No star will veil its splendour; night will be
Spread over windless hills and waveless sea.

But I—ere I may stand
Holding, alive in mine, the far-off hand,
Ere I may overtake the far-off form,
Above my head must burst the boundless storm.