Classic Poem

Thou sanctuary of my soul,
Chaste temple of poetic art,
Built from the wrangling world apart
And sacred from the world's control—

Thou pearly palace pure and blest
Hid in the trees of Paradise,
With violet shade for weary eyes
And roseate avenues of rest—

Here where thy rainbowed fountains play
Among the myrtles where repose
The deathless images of those
Whose genius raised thee from the clay,

I come, full mindful that my days
Are numbered; that anear doth lurk
The night wherein no man can work—
I come—in reverence of the bays

That have been granted to the great
Whose feet have trod this holy place—
To leave some sign, some little trace,
Even but a pavement tesselate.

Of verse that I have wrought in pain,
In pleasure, hope, despair, belief
And doubt, in joy and frenzied grief,
That I may not have lived in vain—

That some one, coming here some day
To pass a peaceful hour of thought,
In my mosaic simply wrought
Seeing some worthy work, may say:

God rest him in a nobler sphere,
Green be the boughs above his grave,
And over him sweet blossoms wave.
And I, though long, long dead, shall hear.