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. 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. 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. 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. 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.
English Poetry - http://www.eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org