For they are victors who through glory came
To see God's face.

Not with the perfect souls that enter there
Could mine abide,
For clouded eyes from eyes all cloudless fair
'Twere best to hide.

And not for me the wondrous streets of gold
Or crystal sea--
I only know the brown earth, worn and old,
Where sinners be.

Unless I found those who to me belong,
My dear and own,
I, in the vastness of that shining throng,
Would be alone.

God guide us to some sun-blessed little star,
We ask not where,
Nor whether it be near or it be far,
So Love is there.




SIR HENRY IRVING

"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"