Classic Poem

He glides before us with the torch of Christ,
Lux Christi crying in this night of time:
On his God-haunted face the grace of God
Dwells visibly; so, chaste and passionless,
His beauty utters its apocalypse,
Or lifts its glass of vision. In such depths
I read man's life anew; a soul-born glow
Has fallen on its pages; all the words
Of that close-written volume take a fresh,
Unlook'd for meaning. Evermore betwixt
The lines of its enigmas shall I read
His gracious message and the peace thereof,
His creed of hope.
I hear it even now,
Though this be dream. The opal twilight falls,
And in the silentness of mere and mead
A church-bell summons to the vesper-hymn.
Is that thy voice which bids me also forth?
Is that the music of thy heart most pure
Which in the pauses of the whirl of thought
Sends forth its summons like a bell to me?
I will not stay to take up staff and scrip,
To count the things I leave or bid farewells.
Behold, I come! Mine empty hands can bear
Whatever burdens may seem well to thee.
And now my soul uplifted views afar
The heights of life, desired and sought so long;
But faintly limn'd against the furthest sky
Are altitudes beyond them. Thence thy voice
Is calling, nothing I behold of thee—
A voice alone upon the mountain-tops
Which calls and calls. The road is steep and wild?
I come no less: I will not faint nor pause.
Ascend, bright spirit, with the speech of God:
My heart is strong to follow and achieve;
But when those vision'd peaks of life I win,
Return into some greater height above
And lead me thus for ever—still remote,
A voice alone on the eternal hills
Which calls and calls.