“From every throat swells forth a song,
Not one is mute of that vast throng,
Who, through the weeping and the night,
Have found their way to Heaven’s delight.
No bitterness, no cry of pain,
No grieving over mortal strain,
No shrinking will, no coward fear,
No breaking heart, no scalding tear,
In the fair city built above,
For this is heaven, and heaven is love.”
The other bowing courteously,
“Thanks for this kindness done to me.
I doffed my boldness and my pride,
And sat here meekly by your side,
While you, for a brief moment’s space,
Painted the beauty of that place,
Where white souls live, now list to me,
And bare your head as reverently,
While I set forth before your eyes
The glories of my Paradise.
“A garden hidden quite away,
Where stranger footsteps never stray,
The yellow sun shines all day long,
The wild-bird sings his choicest song;
There at the gate my angel stands
To welcome me with out-stretched hands;
A lotus-bud gleams in her hair,
Her round, soft arms all white and bare,
Between her lips warm kisses hide,
Love in her eyes that open wide.
A perfume comes up from the beds
Of lilies hanging their white heads,
The pearls of dew begin to fall,
A night-bird to its mate doth call,
The changing shadows softly move
But never touch the face I love;
You know, O Priest, so learned and wise,
The sun sets not in Paradise.
You tell of rest that waits the few,
That strive with earnest zeal and true
To gain it, as the years go past,
By toil, and care, and patient fast,
O Priest! my heaven gives richer dole,
It takes the laggard, worthless soul,
And fills it up with rapture sweet,
And makes it know itself complete.
Rest! never penance won such rest
As comes to me when her white breast
Is made a pillow for my cheek,
When her dark eyes look down and speak;
O Love! the world and all its care
Lies quite outside this garden fair,
You know, O Priest, so learned and wise
The sun sets not in Paradise.
You look for heaven after death—
I draw it in with every breath—
I am content, be you the same,
If I mistake, be mine the blame,
But in one fair sweet odored grove
Lies heaven, if heaven means peace and love.”
His Ex-Platonic Friend
I’ve lost a thing of value great,
And, woe is me, I’ll now find it
The very choicest thing of all,
Or sure, you know I wouldn’t mind it.
Some call it friendship—I don’t know.
But take their word as is my duty,
But if the definition’s true,
Then friendship is a thing of beauty.