Classic Poem

Very cool that bed must be
Where our last sleep shall be slept:
There for weary vigils kept,
There for tears that we have wept,
Is our guerdon certainly.

Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers; —
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.

No more struggling then at length,
Only slumber everywhere;
Nothing more to do or bear:
We shall rest, and resting there
Eagle-like renew our strength.

In the grave will be no space
For the purple of the proud,
They must mingle with the crowd;
In the wrappings of a shroud
Jewels would be out of place.

Youth and health will be but vain,
Courage reckoned of no worth;
There a very little girth
Shall hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.

High and low and rich and poor,
All will fare alike at last:
The old promise standeth fast:
None shall care then if the past
Held more joys for him or fewer.

There no laughter shall be heard,
Nor the heavy sound of sighs;
Sleep shall seal the aching eyes;
All the ancient and the wise
There shall utter not a word.

Yet it may be we shall hear
How the mounting skylark sings
And the bell for matins rings;
Or perhaps the whisperings
Of white Angels sweet and clear.

Sun or moon hath never shone
In that hidden depth of night;
But the souls there washed and white
Are more fair than fairest light
Mortal eye hath looked upon.

The die cast whose throw is life —
Rest complete; not one in seven —
Souls love-perfected and shriven
Waiting at the door of heaven,
Perfected from fear of strife.

What a calm when all is done,
Wearing vigil, prayer and fast: —
All fulfilled from first to last: —
All the length of time gone past
And eternity begun.

Fear and hope and chastening rod
Urge us on the narrow way:
Bear we still as best we may
Heat and burden of the day,
Struggling panting up to God.