Classic Poem

He is dead—so men said,
And they bore him away from the sun, from the day,
To his chamber of rest—
To his chamber of darkness and rest
By the shadow that lies on his lips, on his eyes;
By the pallor and chill of his hands clasped and still,
They knew he was dead.
But the soul, the quick soul,
That could move and control
The inanimate clay that they buried away—
The Promethian fire that did reach and aspire
To a something beyond, something holier and higher,
Has gone up to its goal—
To the beauty and joy of its goal.


It is free; it has gone
Through the paths of the night, through the gates of the dawn
To a kingdom and crown,
From poverty, moil, disappointment and toilTo wealth and renown,
From the dust, from the mold, from darkness and cold,
To put on a king's raiment of purple and gold,
To inherit a crown.

The demon Despair, and the vulture called Care.
Though they tortured him here, can not follow him there;
He is safe by the throne,
And never again
Can a pang or a pain wring from sick heart or brain
Sigh or moan.
He is safe by the throne.

Ah! how little he deems this poor life, with its dreams,
Its laughter, its crying, ambitions and schemes,
The phantoms that lured it, the tempest that tost,
The guerdons it won, or the prizes it lost,
As he stands with his peers,
Blood-washed from all stain, blood-redeemed from all tears,
In the fullness of life never measured by years.


O fair, O sublime
Lies the land far away, beyond Death, beyond Time,
To which he has gone.
Human feet never trod
The bright paths where he walks with the angels of God.
Human heart never dreams of the glory that beams
From the crystalline throne,
Over valleys and streams,
Where he walks with the angels of God.