Sometimes, after trying vainly, With much effort, forced, ungainly, To entice the rugged door To yield up its wondrous lore, With a sudden burst of thunder All its frame is dashed asunder; The gulfy silence, lightning-fleet, Shooteth hellward at thy feet. Take thou heed lest evil terror Snare thee in a downward error, Drag thee through the narrow gate, Give thee up to windy fate, To be blown for evermore Up and down without a shore; For to shun the good as ill Makes the evil bolder still. But oftener far the portal opes With the sound of coming hopes; On the joy-astonished eyes Awful heights of glory rise; Mountains, stars, and dreadful space, The Eternal's azure face. In storms of silence self is drowned, Leaves the soul a gulf profound, Where new heavens and earth arise, Rolling seas and arching skies. Gathers slow a vapour o'er thee From the ocean-depths before thee: Lo! the vision all hath vanished, Thou art left alone and banished; Shut the door, thou findest, groping, Without chance of further oping. Thou must wait until thy soul Rises nearer to its goal; Till more childhood strength has given-- Then approach this gate of Heaven: It will open as before, Yielding wonders, yet in store For thee, if thou wilt turn to good Things already understood. Why I let such useless lumber Useful bookshelves so encumber? I will tell thee; for thy question Of wonders brings me to the best one. There's a future wonder, may be-- Sure a present magic baby; (Patience, friend, I know your looks-- What has that to do with books?) With her sounds of molten speech Quick a parent's heart to reach, Though uncoined to words sedate, Or even to sounds articulate; Yet sweeter than the music's flowing, Which doth set her music going. Now our highest wonder-duty Is with this same wonder-beauty; How, with culture high and steady, To unfold a magic-lady; How to keep her full of wonder At all things above and under; Her from childhood never part, Change the brain, but keep the heart. She is God's child all the time; On all the hours the child must climb, As on steps of shining stairs Leading up the path of prayers. So one lesson from our looks, Must be this: to honour books, As a strange and mystic band Which she cannot understand; Scarce to touch them without fear, Never, but when I am near, As a priest, to temple-rite Leading in the acolyte. But when she has older grown, And can see a difference shown,