At the Last. 
By O'Shaughnessy, Arthur William Edgar. 


By weary paths and wide
Up many a torn hillside,
Through all the raging strife
And the wandering of life,
Here on the mountain's brow
I find, I know not how,
My long-neglected shrine
Still holy, still mine.

The wall, with leaves o'ergrown,
Is ruined but not o'erthrown;
Surely the door hath been
Guarded by one unseen;
Surely the prayer last prayed
And the dream last dreamed have stayed.
I will enter, and try once more
To dream and pray as of yore.