Classic Poem

The low-voiced girls that go
— In gardens of the Lord,
Like flowers of the field they grow
— In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white
— Along the leafy ways;
They go in whirls of light
— Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth
— Is one to set me free —
The one that touched my youth —
— The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire
— Whereby the gods survive —
The white ideal fire
— That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour,
— She leaves her star supreme,
And comes in the night's still power,
— To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery
— On roads beyond our ken,
Softly she comes to me,
— And goes to God again.