April 12th, 1910.
I step across the mystic border-land, And look upon the wonder-world of Art.
How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!
And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!
The winding paths that lead up to the heights Are polished by the footsteps of the great.
The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:
The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked.
Here are no sounds of discord--no profane Or senseless gossip of unworthy things -Only the songs of chisels and of pens, Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains Of souls surcharged with music most divine.
Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief For any day or object left behind -For time is counted precious, and herein Is such complete abandonment of Self That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance The beauty of the land where all is fair.
Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here Where the great artists of the world have trod -The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?
Only the singer of a little song;
Yet loving Art with such a mighty love I hold it greater to have won a place Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave, Than in the outer world of greed and gain To sit upon a royal throne and reign.
