They come to us in simple guise,
In common garb. In sooth
They are not lovely in our eyes,
Though fair in love and truth.
We greet them coldly; after years
We call them
There is no halo round their brow,
As pictured saint may bear;
Nay, rather, sorrow marks them now
With stain of grief or tear.
And smiling satire scarcely spares
They have no eloquence of speech
For us, with fluent flow;
And yet their lovely lives might reach
The heights which angels know.
We scarcely note the beauty theirs,
Or some we scorn! How strange it is
That looks should vex us thus!
That we should spurn, because we miss
Some manner dear to us!
When Memory sings her tender airs
She calls them
We deem ’twere easier far of old
Some sandaled saint to greet,
On tented plain, when skies were gold,
And orient airs were sweet.
Saints meet us now ’mid thronging cares
Sweet songs they sing, brave words they say,
Unheeded though they be,
Until, the singer caught away,
We learn their mystery:
Then, singing up the golden stairs,
O would we pause, with Christ-like grace,
To aid our fellow-men,
Be not too busy in life’s race
To love as brethren:
Across life’s waste would blow soft airs,
While angels walk, not