Though you may see me not, yet hear My laughter in the laughing streams, My footsteps in the running rain.... For sake of all I counted dear And visit still within my dreams I shall at last come home again.
Glory’s a temple open wide, Content, a little shrine. But Heart’s Delight is a land so bright We reckon it half divine. It lies wherever man has lived, But wheresoe’er you find it Its skies are blue with dreams come true, And Heaven is just behind it.
Glory’s the universal gleam Of all God gives to men. Content, the little silver dream He sends to one in ten. But Heart’s Delight, all golden bright, Is given to him alone Who has hidden his heart in the deepest part Of a place called Home.
Of Gonnehem it shall be said That we arrived there late and worn With marching, and were given a bed Of lovely straw. And then at morn On rising from deep sleep saw dangle-- Shining in the sun to spangle, The all-blue heaven--branch loads of red Bright cherries which we bought to eat, Dew-wet, dawn-cool, and sunny-sweet. There was a tiny court-yard too, Wherein one shady walnut grew. Unruffled peace the farm encloses-- I wonder if beneath that tree, The meditating hens still be. Are the white walls now gay with roses? Does the small fountain yet run free? I wonder if that dog still dozes.... Some day we must go back to see.
Into this quiet place Of peace we come. The War God hides his face, His mouth is dumb.
All reckless, wild decrees His lips repeat, Are hushed by a little breeze In waving wheat.
And, like the penance-peace In a heart forlorn, Thrills the word of the trees-- The sigh of the corn.
Some men there are will not abide a rat Within their bivvy. If one chance to peep At them through little beady eyes, then pat, They throw a boot and rouse a mate from sleep To hunt the thing, and on its head they heap Curses quite inappropriate to its size. I care for none of these, but broad and deep I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.
Others may hunt the mouse with bayonet bright, And beard the glittering beetle in his lair, And fill the arches of the ancient night With clamour, if a stolid toad should stare Sleepily forth from the snug corner where They fain would rest. But I will sympathize With beetle, rat, and toad. I have no care. I curse Beelzebub--the God of Flies.