In some old book I read a legend quaint
Of one who wandered from the haunts of men,
One who had sinned and suffered, turned a saint —
He never looked upon their like again.

His eyes drawn inward, shriving his sad soul
By counting over the monotonous bead,
He put away the joy of nature's whole —
Musing upon his own poor, trivial deed.

Nor would he look upon the glad sun rise
Shedding a hope reborn adown the day,
He dared not glory in the sunset skies
But ever turned his eyes within, to pray.

Year after year behind his narrow wall
In garb of monk with crucifix on breast,
His head averted from the sight of all,
He built his pathway to eternal rest.

And when his time was come, with faith assured
He met his hour with longing satisfied,
Content that God should know what he endured;
Alone as he had lived, alone he died.

Swift to the gate of Heaven, the legend ran,
His soul was wafted. Peter, at the gate,
Spake but this word, " Loved you your fellow man? "
And led him to the throne where suppliants wait.

And there, so runs the tale, the God of Love
In majesty upon his throne empearled
Leaned to the saint and said, from heights above:
" What did you think, O man, of my fair world? "

Kneeling, the saint turned sinner, humbly prayed:
" O Lord, my selfish eyes were blind with pain;
I knew not your fair world; I was afraid —
Grant me to serve my fellow man again! "