‘Open the door! Thou canst not understand
My mission, thou spoilt child of many a god,
Thou who dost claim the heart for thy abode;
‘Art for art's sake,’—very well,
Your picture you don't care to sell?
Yes, yes, I do, and thus I try
Ah, did she pass so coldly by
The tenderest love in all the earth,
Making his lifetime one long sigh,
That never knew a morn of mirth?
That foxglove by the garden gate,
The very day the war began,
Opened its first, its lowest flower.
Another day hath dawned
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
Once and once only, and no more,
Art hath reached the topmost bough;
The goodliest fruit of all his store
Our well-filled garner holds till now.
In the first watch of the night,
One candle all my light,
I saw a Spirit near the door
Standing raised above the floor,
The widow heard Elijah's tread,
She heard his staff against the door,
She wrapped the sackcloth round her head,
O, I hae come from far away,
From a warm land far away,
A southern land across the sea,
With sailor-lads about the mast,