Twilight is near, and the day grows old;
The spiders of care are weaving their net;
All night 'twill be blowing and rainy and cold;
I cower at his door from the wind and wet.

He sent me out the world to see,
Drest for the road in a garment new;
It is clotted with clay, and worn beggarly—
The porter will hardly let me through!

I bring in my hand a few dusty ears—
Once I thought them a tribute meet!
I bring in my heart a few unshed tears:
Which is my harvest—the pain or the wheat?

A broken man, at the door of his hall
I listen, and hear it go merry within;
The sounds are of birthday-festival!
Hark to the trumpet! the violin!

I know the bench where the shadowed folk
Sit 'neath the music-loft—there none upbraids!
They will make me room who bear the same yoke,
Dear publicans, sinners, and foolish maids!

An ear has been hearing my heart forlorn!
A step comes soft through the dancing-din!
Oh Love eternal! oh woman-born!
Son of my Father to take me in!

One moment, low at our Father's feet
Loving I lie in a self-lost trance;
Then walk away to the sinners' seat,
With them, at midnight, to rise and dance!