Sonnet

by


      A Trumpet call, a bursting of the sod,
                  And lo! I flung aside the clinging clay
                  Lifted my flight along the star-strewn way
               Among the white-robed saints that fled to God.
               And he that held the gate, with holy nod,
                  Did bid me enter that my feet might stray
                  Amid the flowers with those that God obey;
               The just, the good, and pure on earth there trod.

               Dear heart: I questioned him if thou wert there,
                  One of that bright-browed throng whos voices led
                  The heavenly hymn of praise, the wondrous strain
               That kissed in ecstacy the trembling air?
                  But he that held the gate did shake his head,
                  Thou wast not there; I turned away again.


7

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