Katharine Tynan

The Hermit

Who, counting human joys as vain,
Departeth from the ways of men,
And to the desert takes his road
Rejoicing for the love of God;

Who dieth to the human hive
That he may save his soul alive,
Shakes from his feet the dust of sin,
And with much weeping is made clean;

Him shall the desert sweetly please,
Sweeter than musk or ambergris;
Unto his sands with song and sport
Companion angels shall resort.

The roseate clouds at dawn shall blow
Angels his way, and clouds of snow
Drift angels to the earth and make
Ladders of silver for his sake.

In his palm-tree shall angels stir
Skilled in the lute and dulcimer,
And with their golden wing-feathers
Shall fan him from the noontide airs.

And by his well shall angels lean
And see the golden heads within;
Their hands the date and fig shall bring
To make his meal at evening.

Him shall no evil beast affright
Since angels guard him day and night;
The vultures they have fled afar
From where God's feathered people are.

Sweet his estate who in the wild,
No more mere mortal man exiled,
Looks up, from his tear-watered sod,
And sees in heaven the smile of God.