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@FreeBooksThu 08 Jun, 2023

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WAITING BY THE GATE.

BESIDES the massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

Behold the portals open and o'er the threshold, now, There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his ?allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair.

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays! Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze! Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on; And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So from every region, so enter side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride, Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me.

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