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AT SUNSET.
I sit at my cottage window,
In the light of the sun's last rays,
And the hill-tops glow with splendor,
And the west is all ablaze.
My room is flooded with glory,
My soul, with a wild delight,
And my heart is filled with poems,
That I can not speak, or write.
In the light of the sun's last rays,
And the hill-tops glow with splendor,
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My room is flooded with glory,
My soul, with a wild delight,
And my heart is filled with poems,
That I can not speak, or write.
O, darker, and deeper, and grander,
The glory flames on high,
And I trace the walls of a city,
In that beautiful western sky:
A city all gold and crimson—
All purple and amber red;
And the streets are paved with crystal.
Where the feet of angels tread.
The glory flames on high,
And I trace the walls of a city,
In that beautiful western sky:
A city all gold and crimson—
All purple and amber red;
And the streets are paved with crystal.
Where the feet of angels tread.
O, soulless pen and pencil.
Thy efforts are weak and vain;
The pen of the poet falters,
And his heart is full of pain:
And the artist drops his pencil,
And weeps in mute despair,
For he cannot paint the glory
That lies in the sunset there.
Thy efforts are weak and vain;
The pen of the poet falters,
And his heart is full of pain:
And the artist drops his pencil,
And weeps in mute despair,
For he cannot paint the glory
That lies in the sunset there.
But the city fadeth—fadeth;
The glory turns to grey;
The golden lights are dying,
And the splendor melts away.
And I know it was only the shadow
Of the city built on high—
Only the poor, pale shadow,
That I saw in the sunset sky.
The glory turns to grey;
The golden lights are dying,
And the splendor melts away.
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Of the city built on high—
Only the poor, pale shadow,
That I saw in the sunset sky.
And I long for that other city—
The city that God hath made,
Where the glory never paleth,
And the splendors never fade.
O, there at the feet of Jesus,
In anthems of praise, I know
My soul shall utter the poems
That fill it to overflow.
The city that God hath made,
Where the glory never paleth,
And the splendors never fade.
O, there at the feet of Jesus,
In anthems of praise, I know
My soul shall utter the poems
That fill it to overflow.
1869.
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