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THE PILGRIM

Wild shrieks the wind, how rough’s the way!
But, see, one star’s alight!
Up! let us follow, where its ray
Strikes through the shuddering night
O’er yonder roof, serene and clear.
And hark! what music is’t we hear?

My heart scarce beats, my steps are slow,
Almost I faint and die:
Sick, worn, benumbed amidst the snow,
Ah! what a pilgrim I!
Yet will I follow stagg’ring on,
Ere light and music both be gone.

For One waits there, the only one,
Who knows my heart and me;
All that I am, all I have done,
All I may chance to be:
Who will not spurn the piteous thing,
The sole, best offering I can bring:

Who will not chide me, poor and late,
Nor scorn my sorry wit;
Who will not fling me to my fate—
O God, the thought of it!
Once that I look in those dear eyes,
What virtues shall my soul surprise!

Then up, my heart, gather thy strength
A little longer! see,
Almost our journeying ends; at length
Almost at home are we:
Sheltered, my heart, from storm and night
In that Friend’s house of sure delight!
—Selwyn Image.

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— August 1, 1897 —