O

Poor, sad HumanityThrough all the dust and heatTurns back with bleeding feet,By the weary road it came,Unto the simple thoughtBy the Great Master taught,And that remaineth still,Not he that repeateth the name,But he that doeth the will!

His still refuted quirks he still repeats,New-raised objections with new quibbles meets:Till sinking in the quicksand he defends,He dies disputing, and the contest ends.

Lonely and old, in the dusk I am waiting,Till the dark boatman with soft muffled oarGlides o'er the waves, and I hear the keel grating,—See the dim beckoning hand on the shore,Wafting me over the welcoming riverTo gardens and homes that are shining forever!