| |
| THERE 1 is a shrine whose golden gate | |
| Was opened by the Hand of God; | |
| It stands serene, inviolate, | |
| Though millions have its pavement trod; | |
| As fresh, as when the first sunrise | 5 |
| Awoke the lark in Paradise. | |
| |
| ’Tis compassed with the dust and toil | |
| Of common days, yet should there fall | |
| A single speck, a single soil | |
| Upon the whiteness of its wall, | 10 |
| The angels’ tears in tender rain | |
| Would make the temple theirs again. | |
| |
| Without, the world is tired and old, | |
| But, once within the enchanted door, | |
| The mists of time are backward rolled, | 15 |
| And creeds and ages are no more; | |
| But all the human-hearted meet | |
| In one communion vast and sweet. | |
| |
I enter—all is simply fair, | |
| Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne; | |
| But in the fragrant morning air | |
| A gentle lady sits alone; | |
| My mother—ah! whom should I see | |
| Within, save ever only thee? | 25 |
