Classic Poem

My room is dark—but darker yet
The cell where he lies low
For whom our eyelids still are wet,
Our hearts still throb with woe.

My room is cold—the Western breeze,
That wakes me with its breath,
Above him stirs the aspen trees,
But not his sleep of death.

Just now I dreamed that sweet and fair
I saw his kindly face;
He dreams no more: he waits us where
Nor death nor dream hath place.

Yes! ours the darkness, his the light;
I clasp his outstretched hand
Whose feet have found, through doubt and night,
The sure and shining land.