BY weary paths and wide Up many a torn hillside, Through all the raging strife And the wandering of life, Here on the mountain's brow I find, I know not how, My long-neglected shrine Still holy, still mine. The wall, with leaves o'ergrown, Is ruined but not o'erthrown; Surely the door hath been Guarded by one unseen; Surely the prayer last prayed And the dream last dreamed have stayed. I will enter, and try once more To dream and pray as of yore. |