Classic Poem

There we were and the good St. Peter
Who came to God on high—
A dauntless fellow of a crusader,
A pretty maid, and I.

The soldier prayed that he might ever
Fight as on earth he fought:
And St. Michael gave his own picked legion
As the boon he sought.

The maid sobbed out a stammering prayer
To return to her lover's sight,
And she became the kiss of dawn by day,
A ray of the moon by night.

My turn next; and God said blandly,
“Already I know your will;
You desire the harp of My singer David!”
—My pride leapt up—but still—

“Oh, no, Lord; another thing!
To be a tree on the tropic shore
Watered by my own Ozama,
And there, deep-rooted, to live once more!”