BLEAK HEAVEN


I've heard that Heaven's gates are wrought of pearl,
Her thoroughfares from gold, where throng in white
Fair multitudes with eager faces bright,
While incense-clouds of blue do upward curl
Before the rainbowed throne of God. Some say
The mansions there stand beautifully arrayed,
And sleek-winged angel-choirs in glad parade
Apply themselves to hymns through endless day.

But what a bleak and suffocating dream--
Compared to earth, how pitifully poor;
It's like a man who deems the sun no more
Than just a lighted disc with yellow gleam.

And I abhor to think of streets so cold,
Preferring living grass to sterile gold.