Classic Poem

Shall summer woods where we have laughed our fill;
Shall all your grass so good to walk upon;
Each field which we have loved, each little hill
Be burnt like paper — as hath said Saint John?

Then not alone they die! For God hath told
How all His plains of mingled fire and glass,
His walls of hyacinth, His streets of gold,
His aureoles of jewelled light shall pass,

That He may make us nobler things than these,
And in her royal robes of blazing red
Adorn His bride. Yea, with what mysteries
And might and mirth shall she be diamonded!

And what new secrets shall our God disclose;
Or set what suns of burnished brass to flare;
Or what empurpled blooms to oust the rose;
Or what strange grass to glow like angels' hair!

What pinnacles of silver tracery,
What dizzy rampired towers shall God devise
Of topaz, beryl and chalcedony
To make Heaven pleasant to His children's eyes!

And in what cataclysms of flame and foam
Shall the first Heaven sink — as red as sin —
When God hath cast aside His ancient home
As far too mean to house His children in!