St. John Baptist

I think he had not heard of the far towns;Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings' crowns;Before the thought of God took hold of him,As he was sitting dreaming in the calmOf one first noon, upon the desert's rim,Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm,All overcome with some strange inward balm.He numbered not the changes of the year,The days, the nights, and he forgot all fearOf death: each day he thought there should have beenA shining ladder set for him to climbAthwart some opening in the heavens, e'enTo God's eternity, and see, sublime —His face whose shadow passing fills all time.But he walked through the ancient wilderness.O, there the prints of feet were numberlessAnd holy all about him I And quite plainHe saw each spot an angel silver-shodHad lit upon; where Jacob too had lainThe place seemed fresh, — and, bright and lately trod,A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.And often, while the sacred darkness trailedAlong the mountains smitten and unveiledBy rending lightnings, — over all the noiseOf thunders and the earth that quaked and bowedFrom its foundations — he could hear the voiceOf great Elias prophesying loudTo Him whose face was covered by a cloud.