Classic Poem

Who now shall fear to journey where the feet
Of all our noble dead have ferried forth?
The solemn air that fans the tragic ford
Is sweet with their remembrance. They have gone
To light the temples of a fading star
Against our lonely passing. Warm shall be
The waves we breast upon our journey's end
With touches of their bosoms; and the flowers
We laid upon their biers shall float to us
In the sad current's drifting. We have learned
From them the grandeur of farewells and all
The majesty of parting; for they went
From warmth to winter with their almond locks
Held high and nobly in the breeze. What man
Shall fear to follow their undaunted souls?

Alone, the first who died, entwined no hand
To lift him from the current's heavy play.
All, all the rest of that unceasing line
Have heard the numbers of our last adieus
Swoon in the song of welcome that unrolled
Its low andante on the farther shore.
The weeping Rachael saw her children blow
Down to the mystic water's edge and drift
Like petals from one flower upon the stream:
Nor ever feared the journey from that hour.
O frost, that wakes the fire within the blood,
O night, that rears the rosebud of the dawn,
Teach me how foolish is the fear of Death;
Whose colder frost shall burn a purer fire;
Whose darker night shall hood a clearer day.
Teach me until I know that every vale
Is but the prelude of some mountain peak
That waits my soul's approach: then shall I gain,
From all the sorrow that attendeth man,
As he departs our day, a feeble gauge
To measure up the glory that enfolds
His destination's temple. In the fall
Of stars, that never may return, we find
No grievous passing but a flame that burns
The last white fuel of Hope. In all our woe,
Our cup of tears, the bandage of our pain,
(That crushes out the soul) I see that train
Of sad, attendant figures which preludes
All resurrection. In the sightless ground
What sobbings burst the yellow kernel's heart;
What anguish frees its spirit! On the morn
What echoes of that hour enchant the winds,
That blow from Ceres' temple, with the cry
Of dancing corn. Great Sower of the World!
I lie like a soft kernel in Thine hand;
With more intent upon the harvest fields
That wave beyond the tomb than on that hour
My flesh shall keep her vigil in the dark
And cheerless caverns of the grave.
Pale Death!
I go with thee as one who gaily rides
Through shadows to the dawn; as one who dips
For sweet refreshment in the sea, and leaves
The weary dust of highways on her floor.
It is not mine to sadly ruminate
About the chilling waves. Rather would I
Let my dull eyes grow large and luminous
To seek the daring pathway where the morn
Doth tread the cleaner stars; where light doth clothe
The naked horde, cast up by Lethe's stream,
In raiment fit to meet the Court and King.