  BY EDWIN MARKHAM ONCE, in a world that has gone down to dust, I began to build a palace by the sea, White-pillared, in a garden full of fountains. The mock-birds in the tall magnolias sang; And down all ways the Graces and the Joys Went ever beckoning with wreathing arms. The chisels and the hammers of the men Were singing merrily among the stones, And tower and gable rose against the sky. A thousand friends, All hastening to make ready for the feast, Felt their light bodies whirling in the ball; Were jesting and roaring at the tables spread After the masquerade; were sleeping high In perfumed chambers under the quiet stars; When, lo! a voice came crying through my heart: “Leave all thou hast, and come and follow Me!” Then all at once the hammers and the tongues Grew still around me, and the multitudes— The endless multitudes that ache in chains That we may have our laughter at the wine— Rose spectral and dark to pass before my face. I saw the labor-ruined forms of men; Faces of women worn by many tears; Faces of little children old in youth. I left the towers to crumble in the rains, And waste upon the winds: my old-time friends Flung out their fleering laughters after me. I raised a low roof by a traveled road, And softly turned to give myself to man— To open wells along a trodden way, To build a wall against the sliding sand, To raise a light upon a dangerous coast; When suddenly I found me in a Palace With God for Guest! There in a Palace, fairer than my dream, I dwell: High company come and go through distant-sounding doors. |
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