A laggard in the rear of time’s swift feet, And one who loiters on an aimless way Through lands he knows not; lured by birds to stray In secret paths where silence holds the beat And rust ascending wings. Roads meet; He turns by hazard of some far-glimpsed spray Of blossoming tree. Shall condemnation say, Unprofitable! Empty thy days as fleet?
Nay, if perchance he wanders Paradise, And in unhurried immortality, Treads child-like wise and ignorant the thrice Blessed, ultimate regions of the throne of God? Then needs he not to fear who walks the sod Of Heain angels’ radiant company.