John-A-Dreams --

A laggard in the rear of time's swift feet,
And one who loiters on an aimless way
Through lands he knows not; lured by birds to stray
In secret paths where silence holds the beat
And rust ascending wings. Roads meet;
He turns by hazard of some far-glimpsed spray
Of blossoming tree. Shall condemnation say,
Unprofitable! Empty thy days as fleet?

Nay, if perchance he wanders Paradise,
And in unhurried immortality,
Treads child-like wise and ignorant the thrice
Blessed, ultimate regions of the throne of God?
Then needs he not to fear who walks the sod
Of Heain angels' radiant company.

by Adelaide Crapsey

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