Classic Poem

Chance-child of some lone sorrow on the hills,
Bach finds a babe: instant the great heart fills
With love of that fair innocence,
Conveys it thence,
Clothes it with all divinest harmonies,
Gives it sure foot to tread the dim degrees
Of Pilate's stair—Hush! hush! its last sweet breath
Wails far along the passages of death.