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 ang

"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?