Classic Poem

At the gate of the stately garden
The young man bravely stands;
Afar 'mid the trees the palace
Overlooks the circling lands.

At the heart of the world, at the centre,
Where the pulse of the universe beats,
He stands and he bids them open—
He is scarred with many defeats.

Behind him he sees the marvels
Of the untold worlds of space,
Of the myriad forms of living,
Of the spirit's visible face.

Before him he sees the splendor
Of the infinite might that creates,
Of the life that upholds and strengthens,
Of the love that labors and waits.

He stands at the gate in patience,
He fears not the wardens grim,
He has passed through the trackless forest,
There is naught can terrify him.

Though his head grow white with the ages,
Though the storm howl round him apace,
Though the night come moonless and starless,
He never reverses his face.

In the palace the servants are busy,
They furnish the room for the guest,
For the soul that has travailed and conquered,
That has ceased not from its quest.

He stands till the gate be opened,
He knows that the end is sure,
That the Soul of all souls has heard him,
That the might of his joy shall endure.