THE GATE IN THE GROUND.
BY ROBERT LOVEMAN.
At the end of the lane of joy and pain,
We come to the little gate,
The king and the clown, and the court go down,
Through its portals soon or late;
The peasant, the peer, the sage and the seer,
Depart when the hour comes round,
With a kiss and a sigh, and a last good-bye,
Through the little lone gate in the ground.
’Tis fixed by fate, we must pass through the gate,
The dear little gate in the ground,
At the end of our ways of nights and days,
It is marked by a grassy mound;
We bend o’er the bier, with a sob and a tear,
From the still lips comes no sound,—
We never can know, where God’s gardens grow,
’Till we pass through the gate in the ground.
