Classic Poem

You may call; she will come. Not the shadow of night
Shrouds a sorrow she shuns to meet,
And you shall not know by her steps so light
What sharpness hath pierced her feet:—

That the balm of her healing was bruised of pain,
The breath of a smitten lyre;
That the touch, so cool to your fevered brain,
Was purified by fire.

But you shall believe that a wing so swift,
And a voice of so sweet a tone,
Shall shine with the stars when the clouds uplift,
And sing by the great white throne.