Lowly the soul that waits
At the white, celestial gates,
A threshold soul to greet
Beloved 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?_