As in a foreign land one threads his way ‘Mid alien scenes, knowing no face he meets; And, hearing his name spoken, turns and greets With wondering joy a friend of other days;
As in the pause that comes between the sound And recognition, all the finer sense Is swathed in a melodious eloquence, Which makes his name seem in its sweetness drowned
So stood I, by an atmosphere beguiled Of glad surprise, when first thy lips let fall The name I lightly carried when a child,
That I shall rise to at the judgment call. The music of thy nature folded round Its barrenness a majesty of sound.