KNOCKING, knocking, ever knocking?

Who is there?

'T is a pilgrim, strange and kingly.

Never such was seen before;--

Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder

Undo the door.

No,--that door is hard to open;

Hinges rusty, latch is broken;

Bid Him go.

Wherefore, with that knocking dreary

Scare the sleep from one so weary?

Say Him,--no.

Knocking, knocking, ever knocking?

What! Still there?

O, sweet soul, but once behold Him,

With the glory-crowned hair;

And those eyes, so strange and tender,

Waiting there;

Open! Open! Once behold Him,--

Him, so fair.

Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me,

Coming ever to perplex me?

For the key is stiffly rusty,

And the bolt is clogged and dusty;

Many-fingered ivy-vine

Seals it fast with twist and twine;

Weeds of years and years before

Choke the passage of that door.

Knocking! knocking! What! still knocking?

He still there?

What's the hour? The night is waning,--

In my heart a drear complaining,

And a chilly, sad unrest!

Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me,

Scares my sleep with dreams unblest!

Give me rest,

Rest,--ah, rest!

Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee;

Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure,

Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure,

Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping,

Waked to weariness of weeping;--

Open to thy soul's one Lover,

And thy night of dreams is over,--

The true gifts He brings have seeming

More than all thy faded dreaming!

Did she open? Doth she? Will she?

So, as wondering we behold,

Grows the picture to a sign,

Pressed upon your soul and mine;

For in every breast that liveth

Is that strange mysterious door;--

Though forsaken and betangled,

Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled,

Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;--

There the pierced hand still knocketh,

And with ever-patient watching,

With the sad eyes true and tender,

With the glory-crowned hair,--

Still a God is waiting there.