Intently I listened, but scant my reply;
Sorrow and gladness o'er-misted the eye.
Gladness for light of a long, lustrous day;
Sorrow for sunshine fast fleeting away.
More dense than the doole of a starless night
The gloom of a soul which knoweth no light.
Down-coursing as cataract o'er the steep hill
That will which opposeth the Higher Will.
Unbeauteous is age when it crusts itself round,
Or buries itself in a selfish mound.
But blessèd be those who in soul-growth expand
'Neath the milder beams from the glory-land.
Yea blessèd they be! when the river is passed,
They shall enter the gate with the palms at last.