Classic Poem

Oh , there are those, a sordid clan,
—With pride in gaud and faith in gold,
Who prize the sacred soul of man
—For what his hands have sold.

And these shall deem thee humbly bred:
—They shall not hear, they shall not see
The kings among the lordly dead
—Who walk and talk with thee!

A tattered cloak may be thy dole,
—And thine the roof that Jesus had:
The broidered garment of the soul
—Shall keep thee purple-clad!

The blood of men hath dyed its brede,
—And it was wrought by holy seers
With sombre dream and golden deed,
—And pearled with women's tears.

With Eld thy chain of days is one:
—The seas are still Homeric seas;
Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun,
—The stars of Socrates!

Unaged the ancient tide shall surge,
—The old Spring burn along the bough:
For thee, the new and old converge
—In one eternal Now!

I give thy feet the hopeful sod,
—Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath;
The glory of the search for God
—Be thine in life and death!

Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust;
—Thy soul, the gift of being free:
The torch my fathers gave in trust,
—Thy father gives to thee!