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.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
