Lowly the soul that waits
At the white, celestial gates,
A threshold soul to greet
Belovèd feet.
Down the streets that are beams of sun
Cherubim children run;
They welcome it from the wall;
Their voices call.
But the Warder saith: "Nay, this
Is the City of Holy Bliss.
What claim canst thou make good
To angelhood?"
"Joy," answereth it from eyes
That are amber ecstasies,
Listening, alert, elate,
Before the gate.
Oh, how the frolic feet
On lonely memory beat!
What rapture in a run
'Twixt snow and sun!
"Nay, brother of the sod,
What part hast thou in God?
What spirit art thou of?"
It answers: "Love,"
Lifting its head, no less
Cajoling a caress,
Our winsome collie wraith,
Than in glad faith
The door will open wide,
Or kind voice bid: "Abide,
A threshold soul to greet
The longed-for feet."
Ah, Keeper of the Portal,
If Love be not immortal,
If Joy be not divine,
What prayer is mine? |