_April_ 12_th_, 1910.
* * * * *
_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_.