THE HOUR OF AWE by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON

NOT in the five-domed wonder
Where the soul of Venice lies,
When the sun cleaves the gloom asunder
With pathways to Paradise,
And the organ's melodious thunder
Summons you to the skies;

Not in that rarest hour,
When over the Arno's rush
The City of Flowers' flower
Looms in the sunset flush,
And the poignant stroke from the tower
Pierces the spirit's hush;

Not Rome's high vault's devising
That builded the heavens in,
When you know not the anthem's rising
From the song of the cherubin,
Where, sight and soul surprising,
Dusk utters your dearest sin:

Not these -- nor the star-sown splendor,
Nor the deep wood's mystery,
Nor the sullen storm's surrender
To the ranks of the leaping sea,
Nor the joy of the springtime tender
On Nature's breast to be;

But to find in a woman's weeping
The look you have longed to find,
And know that in Time's safe-keeping,
Through all the ages blind,
Was Love, like a winged seed, sleeping,
For you and the waiting wind.

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