Chapter VII

Oh, let it knock upon our door,
That hand that taps with futile touch;
We have our joy, the rest--what can it offer more?
The rest with futile, listless touch?
Let them pass our door,
The wearied, mirthless joys
With their tinsel and their toys.
Let laughter rise and sound and disappear;
The crowd move on with million voices clear.

The moment is so fair with light
In this garden all about;
The moment is so rare with new-born light
Deep within us and without!
Ah, 'tis the part of wisdom, dear;
No longer seek we those who go
By the long highway drear,
With heavy feet and singing low.
But stay we here, contented as of old,
Though night itself strike out the sky above,
Loving within us the idea we hold
Of this most wondrous, steadfast thing, our love.