John-a-dreams —

A laggard in the rear of time’s swift feet,

And one who loiters on an aimless way

Through lands he knows not; lured by birds to stray

In secret paths where silence holds the beat

And rust ascending wings. Roads meet;

He turns by hazard of some far-glimpsed spray

Of blossoming tree. Shall condemnation say,

Unprofitable! Empty thy days as fleet?

Nay, if perchance he wanders Paradise,

And in unhurried immortality,

Treads child-like wise and ignorant the thrice

Blessed, ultimate regions of the throne of God?

Then needs he not to fear who walks the sod

Of Heain angels’ radiant company.