Classic Poem

Somewhere Jack-in-the-pulpit stands,
Master of all he sees,
Where the checkering shadows wander down,
Under the forest trees,
And marshalled ferns in their brave array
Are guarding patiently
The cool green moss that has ne'er been trod
In the place that waits for me.

The roar of the city grows faint and low
As I list to the silence deep,
To the call of the wood-thrush fairy clear
Where the trees their shadows keep.
The heat and the struggle are far away,
And I stand for a moment free,
As I breathe the breath of the chiming brook
In the place that waits for me.

Perhaps when the labor all is done
I may come to my kingdom fair;
Perhaps through the years of shade and sun
It will always wait me there;
But I know the violets still will bloom
With never an eye to see,
And the wood-thrush call with none to hear
In the place that waits for me.

Here in the strife my comrades toil
Where the prisoning walls are high,
Where the noonday glares on the burning street,
And the people surging by.
I would they could hear the chiming brook,
I would that their eyes could see
The shadows dance on the woodland moss
In the place that waits for me.