A crowd is such a weary, hopeless thing Till I can trace Somewhere amid its drift and hurrying The one dear face; Then leaps the crowd to meaning and to life, And that dead sea Of alien purposes and foreign strife Is home to me. A task is barren till in its design It can embrace The inspiration and the courage fine Of that dear face. And then the pallid duty sudden glows, As roses run Across a lonely mountain's reach of snows, Touched by the sun. Triumph itself is empty, cold, and bare Of warmth and grace, Till I discern amid the wreaths and blare The one dear face. Then am I humbly glad and kingly proud, Achieving this, And wait impatient till I am allowed Her crown -- a kiss. Ah, heaven itself but half a heaven will be, A longing place, Until amid its loveliness I see The one dear face. Then angel throngs remote will flash to friends, And I shall bide, Where'er my blest eternity extends, So satisfied. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MUJER by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS RIDDLE: A CANDLE by MOTHER GOOSE AN ELEGIE, OR FRIENDS PASSION, FOR HIS ASTROPHILL by MATTHEW ROYDEN COMEDY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH INTROSPECTION by GEORGE ARNOLD |