W. B. Conkey Company
Chicago
Copyright, 1888
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
_I step across the mystic border-land,_
_And look upon the wonder-world of Art._
_How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!_
_And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!_
_The winding paths that lead up to the heights_
_Are polished by the footsteps of the great._
_The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:_
_The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon_
_Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked._
_Here are no sounds of discord--no profane_
_Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--_
_Only the songs of chisels and of pens._
_Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains_
_Of souls surcharged with music most divine._
_Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief_
_For any day or object left behind--_
_For time is counted precious, and herein_
_Is such complete abandonment of Self_
_That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance_
_The beauty of the land where all is fair._
_Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land._
_Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here_
_Where the great artists of the world have trod--_
_The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?_
_Only the singer of a little song;_
_Yet loving Art with such a mighty love_
_I hold it greater to have won a place_
_Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,_
_Than in the outer world of greed and gain_
_To sit upon a royal throne and reign._