A LITTLE BOOK

OF

LIFE AND DEATH

TH

THE SHRINE

HERE is a shrine whose golden gate Was opened by the Hand of God; It stands serene, inviolate,

Though millions have its pavement trod;
As fresh as when the first sunrise
Awoke the lark in Paradise.

'Tis compass'd with the dust and toil
Of common days, yet should there fall
A single speck, a single soil,
Upon the whiteness of its wall,
The angels' tears in tender rain
Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old,
But once within the enchanted door,
The mists of time are backward rolled,
And creeds and ages are no more,
But all the human-hearted meet
In one communion vast and sweet.

A LITTLE BOOK

OF

LIFE AND
AND DEATH

THE

THE SHRINE

HERE is a shrine whose golden gate
Was opened by the Hand of God;

It stands serene, inviolate,

Though millions have its pavement trod; As fresh as when the first sunrise

Awoke the lark in Paradise.

'Tis compass'd with the dust and toil
Of common days, yet should there fall
A single speck, a single soil,
Upon the whiteness of its wall,
The angels' tears in tender rain
Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old,
But once within the enchanted door,
The mists of time are backward rolled,
And creeds and ages are no more,
But all the human-hearted meet
In one communion vast and sweet.

I enter; all is simply fair,

Nor incense clouds, nor carven throne,
But in the fragrant morning air

A gentle lady sits alone;

My mother-ah! whom should I see
Within, save ever only thee?

DIGBY MACKWORTH-DOLBEN