Classic Poem

How lightly hast thou learned of human grief!
Thy flesh has 'scaped the sacrificial knife —
Men quote the pride of a too happy life
To set thy even virtues in relief.

The brow's serenity — the head thrown back
That the audacious eyes may smile to heaven;
The mouth, with not one tender muscle riven
By the impatient torture of the rack;

A joy self-continent, that overflows
The marble of the face, for Beauty's sake;
Heroic laughter, such as Day might wake
In a God's heart, with rosy, ringing blows.

Oh! happy soul — upon thy placid breast
The worn eye sinks, and has so much of calm,
While the clear voice is medicine and balm
To heal the aguish fever of unrest.

Yet are there closets of the inner shrine
Where we are bidden from the flowery day,
To stand and give the awful voices sway,
And, holding by God's hand, must part from thine.