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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

In Rama

By George Alfred Townsend (1841–1914)

A LITTLE face there was,

When all her pains were done,

Beside that face I loved:

They said it was a son.

A son to me—how strange!—

Who never was a man,

But lived from change to change

A boy, as I began.

More boyish still the hope

That leaped within me then,

That I, matured in him,

Should found a house of men;

And all my wasted sheaves,

Bound up in his ripe shock,

Give seed to sterner times

And name to sterner stock.

He grew to that ideal

And blossomed in my sight;

Strange questions filled his day,

Sweet visions in the night,

Till he could walk with me,

Companion, hand in hand;

But nothing seemed to be

Like him, in Wonder-land.

For he was leading me

Beyond the bounds of mind,

Far down Eternity,

And I so far behind.

One day an angel stepped

Out of the idle sphere—

The man had entered in,

The boy is weeping here.

My house is founded there

In heaven that he has won.

Shall I be outlawed, then,

O Lord who hast my son?

This grief that makes me old,

These tears that make me pure,

They tell me time is time,

And only heaven mature.