Beholding him, the Master loved him well,
This rich young man who even from childhood up
Had lived discreetly in the fear of God,
This rich but meek young man who running came!
How seldom do the rich find need to run!
And now the Master wished for one as earnest
No bitter drop in a cup so far so sweet;
No loss but durable riches, home and heaven.
To sell the trivial and these riches buy,
He counseled, but the young man turned away—
Who might have walked with angels comradely,
In strange and heartbreak silence turned away!
Why sorrowful, we question as we read—
His wealth was still his own, each coin was safe,
But here, if ever, was true cause for grief:
The bright, the perfect vision, almost held,
The nearly-uttered, peace-bestowing choice,
Were past! A door that opened to his knock
Showing the lovely things of home, of heaven,
Had closed! Small wonder he was sorrowful,
Walking again the garish, earthy road.
Again indeed! We feel that nevermore
Would joy be found in his world's chilly splendor,
For he had known the warmth, the light of Love,
A lifted lantern to his darkened way,
A quick and fadeless beauty on his path. . . .
Here is no final scene all pierced with sorrow—
Another knock, another open door;
Then even running feet were not enough,
But like an arrow will his heart fly home!
