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THE PILGRIM
ONCE a man set forth at morning,
Journeying with eager footstep,
Onward over fields new-wakened,
Where the dew lay on the blossoms,
Like to softly gleaming opals.
All the earth, refreshed by slumber,
In the early light and tender
Wore a green, benignant beauty;
And his heart sang high within him,
As the birds sang in the branches.
On he sped with fond impatience,—
While the world took on new wonder,—
Till he came unto a river
Where there waiting stood an angel,
Dark-browed, but with look celestial.
Then, appalled, the pilgrim started:—
"Death! Awaitest thou my coming—
Here where least I thought to meet thee?
It is Love that I am seeking!"
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