194 THE GARDEN-GATE.
Paints them ruddy with rust Till a footfall is death.
We build them of glory ; The quicksand, ashift,
Leaves the arches all sprung And the timbers adrift.
But, thanks be for ever !
One bridge is all ready ; It lies on the promises,
Anchored and steady : Tis the bridge of the Cross,
All ashine in the gloom, And the Lilies of Peace
On its farther side bloom.
LONG ago, in childish terror, From a fancied gnome I fled, Casting frightened glances backward, Longing looks toward home ahead ; Through the lane and by the willows,
Swift and sure as feet of fate, Never stayed I till behind me
Clanged and clasped the garden-gate.
Blessed gate of happy childhood, Barring harm and sorrow out,