Part 5 (2/2)

His sun-land has churches, and priests at prayer, White nuns, as white as the far north snow; They go where danger el of death is there

His love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, In the Creole quarter, with great black eyes,-- So fair that the Mayor must keep them there Lest troubles, like troubles of Troy, arise

His love-land has ladies, with eyes held down,-- Held down, because if they lifted theh you held even to God's garment hem

His love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, That they bend their eyes to the holy book Lest you should forget yourself, your prayer, And never more cease to look and to look

And these are the ladies that no men see, And this is the reason men see them not

Better their modest sweet mystery,-- Better by far than the battle-shot

And so, in this curious old town of tiles, The proud French quarter of days long gone, In castles of Spain and tumble-down piles These wonderful ladies live on and on

I sit in the church where they coone, Of the low raised high, of the high brought low, As in battle-torn days of Napoleon

These piteous places, so rich, so poor!

One quaint old church at the edge of the town Has white tombs laid to the very church door,-- White leaves in the story of life turned down

White leaves in the story of life are these, The lohite slabs in the long strong grass, Where Glory has elass And dreams with the dreamers beneath the trees

I dream with the dreareat white throne; I count each tomb as a mute milestone For weary, sweet souls on their way to God

I sit all day by the vast, strong strearass Where Tiotten for aye to pass, To dream, and ever to dream and to dream

This quaint old church with its dead to the door, By the cypress swae of the town, So restful seems that you want to sit down And rest you, and rest you for evermore

And one white tomb is a lowliest to door,-- So roo o'er

'Tis a lohite slab, and 'tis nameless, too-- Her untold story, ho should know?

Yet God, I reckon, can read right through That nameless stone to the bosom below

And the roses know, and they pity her, too; They bend their heads in the sun or rain, And they read, and they read, and then read again, As children reading strange pictures through

Why, surely her sleep it should be profound; For oh the apples of gold above!

And oh the blossoather around!

The sleep of a night, or a thousand morns?

Why what is the difference here, to-day?

Sleeping and sleeping the years away With all earth's roses, and none of its thorns

Magnolias white and the roses red-- The palm-tree here and the cypress there: Sit down by the palht prayer