(Springfield, Illinois)
IS it for naught that where the tired crowds see
Only a place for trade, a teeming square,
Doors of high portent open unto me
Carved with great eagles, and with hawthorns rare?
Doors I proclaim, for there are rooms forgot
Ripened through æons by the good and wise:
Walls set with Art’s own pearl and amethyst
Angel-wrought hangings there, and heaven-hued dyes:--
Dazzling the eye of faith, the hope-filled heart:
Rooms rich in records of old deeds sublime:
Books that hold garnered harvests of far lands,
Pictures that tableau Man’s triumphant climb:
Statues so white, so counterfeiting life,
Bronze so ennobled, so with glory fraught
That the tired eyes must weep with joy to see
And the tired mind in Beauty’s net be caught.
Come enter there, and meet To-morrow’s Man,
Communing with him softly day by day.
Ah, the deep vistas he reveals, the dream
Of angel-bands in infinite array--
Bright angel-bands, that dance in paths of earth
When our despairs are gone, long overpast--
When men and maidens give fair hearts to Christ
And white streets flame in righteous peace at last.