Emma Lazarus

WHEN on thy bed of pain thou layest low

Daily we saw thy body fade away,

Nor could the love wherewith we loved thee stay

For one dear hour the flesh borne down by woe;

But as the mortal sank, with what white glow

Flamed the eternal spirit, night and day;

Untouched, unwasted, though the crumbling clay

Lay wrecked and ruined! Ah, is it not so,

Dear poet-comrade, who from sight hast gone;

Is it not so the spirit hath a life

Death may not conquer? But, O dauntless one!

Still must we sorrow. Heavy is the strife

And thou not with us; thou of the old race

That with Jehovah parleyed, face to face.