There lies above our grosser air
A region of blue heaven fair,
Too thin a feather's weight to bear, —
And there to souls like white snow driven
From earth's rough waves a rest is given, —
A harbour locked by lands of heaven.
Ah, to reach to it! Only one
Of men I know beneath the sun
Who to this home of rest has won.
All shapes of beauty he can see,
All hues of bright divinity.
Trust him! He cannot lie to thee!
For though betwixt dull earth and him
Such clouds and mists deceptive swim.
That to his eyes life's ways look dim;
Yet when on high he lifts his gaze,
He sees the stars' untroubled ways,
And the divine of endless days.
To us this star or that seems bright,
And oft some headlong meteor's flight
Holds for a while our raptured sight.
But he discerns each noble star;
The least is only the most far,
Whose worlds, may be, the mightiest are.
He marks not meteors that go by.
Fired for one moment as they fly;
He heeds not, knowing they must die.
How should he care what men may say,
Who see no heaven day by day.
And dream not of his hidden way?
He cares not, though they call him mad.
Yet who would see his fellows glad,
From sympathy with woe is sad.
And he is sad, not for himself,
But for the inhuman lust of pelf;
All knees bowed to one Baal, — Self.
'Tis vain to preach, and no men know
The sweetness 'twere with him to go,
Leaving our beaten life below.
So like a lovely vine he stands,
That stretches sympathetic hands,
To cling with all its thousand bands.
Yet, though, because no prop be nigh,
Its yearning tendrils droop and die, —
It stands, for it is stayed on high.