Not with the haloed saints would Heaven be
For such as I;
Who have not reached to their serenity
So sweet and high.
Not with the martyrs washed by holy flame
Could I find place,
For they are victors who through glory came
To see God's face.
Not with the perfect souls that enter there
Could mine abide,
For clouded eyes from eyes all cloudless fair
'Twere best to hide.
And not for me the wondrous streets of gold
Or crystal sea—
I only know the brown earth, worn and old,
Where sinners be.
Unless I found those who to me belong,
My dear and own,
I, in the vastness of that shining throng,
Would be alone.
God guide us to some sun-blessed little star,
We ask not where,
Nor whether it be near or it be far,
So Love is there.
SIR HENRY IRVING
"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"
No more for thee the music and the lights,
Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;
For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.
No more the sea of faces, turned to thine,
Swayed by impassioned word and breathless pause;
No more the triumph of thine art—no more
The thunder of applause.