MIDNIGHT or morning, eve or noon, Torn March or clover-scented June, -- Whene'er you stand before this gate, 'T will open -- if but not too soon You knock, if only not too late. Well shall it be if, boyhood gone, A boy's delight you still may own To play the dawn-new game of life, -- If what is dreamed and what is known In your still-startled heart have strife. Ere you have banished Mystery, Or throned Distrust, or less shall be Stirred by the deep and fervent line Which is the poet's sign and fee: Be this your joy that now is mine. When comes the hour, be full and bright Your lamp, as the wiser virgins' light! Choose some familiar, shrine-like nook, And offer up in prayer the night Upon the altar of this book. Always new earth, new heavens lie The apocalyptic spirit nigh: If such be yours, oh, while you can, Bid unregretted Youth good-bye, For morning shall proclaim you Man. |