Classic Poem

I tax not all with this unmanly hate
Of truth, for purer spirits stand without —
Meek men of reverent purpose, watch and wait,
And gaze in sorrow from the land of doubt.
Yes — gentle souls there be, who hold apart,
And long in silence for the day of grace;
For deep in many a brave, though bleeding, heart
There lurks a yearning for the Healer's face —
A yearning to be free from hint and guess,
To take the blessings Christ is fain to give:
To all who dare not with their conscience strive,
To all who burn for this most dear success,
Faith shall be born! and, by her natural stress,
Push through these dark philosophies, and live!