Classic Poem

It matters little to the winged sprite
That flits and flits the clustered stars among,
What fate befell the useless vesture flung
So sadly earthward at the time of flight.
Eyes dazzled by a sudden flood of light
Cannot look into darkness; hymns are sung
In vain for spirit ears on which has rung
God's perfect music heard at last aright.
Yet for this worn-out garment seems more fit
Than beak of Parsee bird, or wormy shroud,
Or grinning ages in Egyptian pit,
A chaunt of merry fire tongues, singing loud,
While deft flame-fingers shall unravel it,
And slim wind-fingers weave it into cloud.