Classic Poem

Not of the dead: of the face on face,
Crowned and damned in a twilight place,
Where the dumb lips gape and the weird lamp gleams,
And the glories dissolve into dust and dreams
Not of the dead, of the void of sighs
Where yesternight, with her children, lies,
Amid stars and mists: of the lone cry tossed
To the far low tread of an age long lost,
The sleepy realms of a sunken star,
God is the God of the things that are.

Though the fair myths moan and the faint creeds sigh,
Yet the hoarse crafts roar and the days rush by,
In a deafening circle, wheel in wheel,
In a fog of smoke and a shriek of steel,
God sits aloft in the noisy air,
The master of workers everywhere,
The dreamer's lips have a golden word
But the voice of life is the voice of the Lord,
Steam or raincloud, spark or star,
God is the God of the things that are.