I cannot think of Paradise a place Where men go idly to and fro, With harps of gold and robes that shame the snow; With great wide wings that brightly interlace Whene'er they sing before the Master's face— Within a realm where neither pain nor woe, Nor care is found; where tempests never blow; Where souls with hopes and dreams may run no race. Such paradise were but a hell to me; Devoid of all progression, I should rot, Or shout for revolution, wide and far. Better some simple task, a spirit free To act along the line of self forgot— Or help God make a blossom or a star. |