THEY made them idols in the elder days, Idols and images of brass and stone, To bow before their image when the praise Should go, O God, to Thee and Thee alone. Yet who shall say how much of tender trust, Of deep-heart adoration and desire Was hid behind these symbols of the dust That rose like smoke to dim the central fire? How often, in those heathen hearts, indeed, Ardent and upwardly there must have burned A flame of worship, an imperious need To clasp and kiss the thing toward which they yearned. Midst of the mystic Orient to-day, Far in the north, or where the great South Seas Circle the islands, gather still to pray The myriad folk whose faith is like to these. Rebuke them not: even as a root at birth Feels upward to the light, these simple men Foredream the flower and darkly from the earth Salute the mystery beyond their ken. |