Chapter I

On the closed door I knocked and knocked again.
It was so cold without: the wind and rain
Buffeted me, and made me sick and sore,
And no birds sang, and night came on, and o’er
The surging wind rose pitiful sad cries
From all the souls cast out of Paradise ...
On the closed door I knocked and knocked again
Till I grew tired with bitterness and pain.
I made no fine resolve, I shed no tear:
I knew that God was good, that she was dear,
Only I wondered why these things had been,
Why I was glad I loved, that she had seen.
She was too pure to care, perhaps too cold,
So, in the wilderness I should grow old,
With but the memory of her wide grave eyes
To comfort me, shut out from Paradise.
On the closed door I knocked and knocked again,
And suddenly it opened on a chain
And I peered close, and, eager, looked inside—
Then turned me to the world that waited, wide:
’Twas not for pride I suffered, not for sin;
I was barred out to let a loved one in.