LITMIR.BIZ

      KNOCKING, knocking, ever knocking?

      Who is there?

      'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly,

      Never such was seen before; —

      Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder

      Undo the door.

      No, – that door is hard to open;

      Hinges rusty, latch is broken;

      Bid Him go.

      Wherefore, with that knocking dreary

      Scare the sleep from one so weary?

      Say Him, – no.

      Knocking, knocking, ever knocking?

      What! Still there?

      O, sweet soul, but once behold Him,

      With the glory-crownéd hair;

      And those eyes, so strange and tender,

      Waiting there;

      Open! Open! Once behold Him, —

      Him, so fair.

      Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me,

      Coming ever to perplex me?

      For the key is stiffly rusty,

      And the bolt is clogged and dusty;

      Many-fingered ivy-vine

      Seals it fast with twist and twine;

      Weeds of years and years before

      Choke the passage of that door.

      Knocking! knocking! What! still knocking?

      He still there?

      What's the hour? The night is waning, —

      In my heart a drear complaining,

      And a chilly, sad unrest!

      Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me,

      Scares my sleep with dreams unblest!

      Give me rest,

      Rest, – ah, rest!

      Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee;

      Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure,

      Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure,

      Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping,

      Waked to weariness of weeping; —

      Open to thy soul's one Lover,

      And thy night of dreams is over, —

      The true gifts He brings have seeming

      More than all thy faded dreaming!

      Did she open? Doth she? Will she?

      So, as wondering we behold,

      Grows the picture to a sign,

      Pressed upon your soul and mine;

      For in every breast that liveth

      Is that strange mysterious door; —

      Though forsaken and betangled,

      Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled,

      Dusty, rusty, and forgotten; —

      There the piercéd hand still knocketh,

      And with ever-patient watching,

      With the sad eyes true and tender,

      With the glory-crownéd hair, —

      Still a God is waiting there.

      YOU asked, dear friend, the other day,

      Why still my charméd ear

      Rejoiceth in uncultured tone

      That old psalm tune to hear?

      I've heard full oft, in foreign lands,

      The grand orchestral strain,

      Where music's ancient masters live,

      Revealed on earth again, —

      Where breathing, solemn instruments,

      In swaying clouds of sound,

      Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul,

      Like silver wings around; —

      I've heard in old St. Peter's dome,

      Where clouds of incense rise,

      Most ravishing the choral swell

      Mount upwards to the skies.

      And well I feel the magic power,

      When skilled and cultured art

      Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves

      Around the captured heart.

      But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,

      That old psalm tune hath still

      A pulse of power beyond them all

      My inmost soul to thrill.

      Those halting tones that sound to you,

      Are not the tones I hear;

      But voices of the loved and lost

      There meet my longing ear.

      I hear my angel mother's voice, —

      Those were the words she sung;

      I hear my brother's ringing tones,

      As once on earth they rung;

      And friends that walk in white above

      Come round me like a cloud,

      And far above those earthly notes

      Their singing sounds aloud.

      There may be discord, as you say;

      Those voices poorly ring;

      But there's no discord in the strain

      Those upper spirits sing.

      For they who sing are of the blest,

      The calm and glorified,

      Whose hours are one eternal rest

      On heaven's sweet floating tide.

      Their life is music and accord;

      Their souls and hearts keep time

      In one sweet concert with the Lord, —

      One concert vast, sublime.

      And through the hymns they sang on earth

      Sometimes a sweetness falls

      On those they loved and left below,

      And softly homeward calls, —

      Bells from our own dear fatherland,

      Borne trembling o'er the sea, —

      The narrow sea that they have crossed,

      The shores where we shall be.

      O sing, sing on, beloved souls!

      Sing cares and

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