Classic Poem

So while the blear-eyed pimp beside me walked,
And talked,
For instance, of the beautiful danseuse
And ‘Eccellenza sure must see, if he would choose’
Or of the lady in the green silk there,
Who passes by and bows with minx's air,
Or of the little thing not quite fifteen,
Sicilian-born who surely should be seen—
So while the blear-eyed pimp beside me walked
And talked, and I too with fit answer talked,
So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone,
I with my secret self held communing of mine own.

So in the southern city spake the tongue
Of one that somewhat overwildly sung,
But in a later hour I sat and heard
Another voice that spake, another graver word.
Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said;
Though he be dead, he is not dead.
In the true Creed
He is yet risen indeed,
Christ is yet risen.

Weep not beside his tomb
Ye women unto whom
He was great comfort and yet greater grief;
Nor ye faithful few that wont with him to roam,
Seek sadly what for him ye left, go hopeless to your home;
Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their belief;
Though he be dead, he is not dead,
Nor gone though fled,
Not lost though vanished;
Though he return not, though
He lies and moulders low,
In the true Creed
He is yet risen indeed,
Christ is yet risen.

Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground,
Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look around.
Whate'er befell,
Earth is not hell;
Now too as when it first began,
Life yet is Life and Man is Man.
For all that breathe beneath the heavens' high cope,
Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope.
Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief,
Or at the least, faith unbelief.
Though dead not dead;
Not gone though fled;
Not lost, not vanished.
In the great Gospel and true Creed
He is yet risen indeed,
Christ is yet risen.