Classic Poem

The Sister wears a long straight gown
That hangs in folds of heavy brown;
Is it to teach there is no garb
Gives entrance to the Heavenly town?

For't is her swift feet take her there,
'T is her kind hands that build it fair,
Nor need she wait to tread its streets,
For it is neither here nor there.

I go up in my cloak of pain
And try the bright door not in vain;
I slip into the silent squares,
And I may go again, again.

'Tis for the living—we who try
To learn life deeply ere we die.
Even pain who draws me near to death
Hath taught me life most patiently.

Even pain, with that same cruel hand
That stripped from me the light of day,
Doth show with fiery far-flung brand
The hills of my still Heaven-land.