The many homes of men shine near and far;

Peace-laden as the tender evening star,

The late home-coming folk anticipate

Their rest beyond the passing of the gate,

And tread with sleep-filled hearts on drowsy feet.

[4]

Oh, far away and wonderful and sweet

All this, all this. But far too many things

Obscuring, as a cloud of seraph wings

Blinding the seeker for the Lord behind,

I fall away in weariness of mind,

And think how far apart are I and you,

Beloved, from those spirit children who

Felt but one single Being long ago,

Whispering in gentleness and leaning low

Out of its majesty, as child to child.

I think upon it all with heart grown wild.

Hearing no voice, howe'er my spirit broods.

No whisper from the dense infinitudes,

This world of myriad things whose distance awes.

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