Classic Poem

Behind their cloudy curtains,
Over sunset's crimson sea,
Like fires along a battle field,
Intensely, mournfully,
The radiant stars are burning,
That will burn no more for me.

Ere on yon path of glory,
Which still the daylight warms,
Walks silently the midnight,
With the silence in her arms,
I shall be where longings trouble not,
Nor haunting fear alarms.

Nay, weep not, gentlest, dearest,
When joy should most abound,
That the dewy, tender clasping
Of thy arms must be unwound;
We have journeyed long together
In life's wilderness profound.

Like the shining threads of silver
Which the showers of summer leave,
When to webs of beauty woven
By the golden loom of eve,
Is the path that lies before me now —
Then, dear one, do not grieve.

Mortality has been to me
A wheel of pain, at best,
And I sink, although thy gentle love
Has soothed and almost blest,
As a pilgrim in the shadow
Of the sepulchre, to rest.

Not when the morn is glowing,
Like a banner o'er the brave,
Nor when the world is bathing
In the noontide's amber wave,
Will I come, oh Love, to meet thee
From the chamber of the grave.

But through the silver columns
Leaning earthward from the arch,
When the pale and solemn army
Of the night is on the march,
I will glide, oh Love, to meet thee,
From the shadow of the larch.

As the poet's bosom trembles
With some awful melody,
Till he hears the dark procession
Of the ages sweeping by,
Lo! my heart is trembling, beating,
To the music of the sky.