'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' <br /> <br />Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? <br />Who is there? <br />'T is a pilgrim, strange and kingly, <br />Never such was seen before;- <br />Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder <br />Undo the door. <br /> <br />No,-that door is hard to open; <br />Hinges rusty, latch is broken; <br />Bid Him go. <br />Wherefore, with that knocking dreary <br />Scare the sleep from one so weary? <br />Say Him,-no. <br /> <br />Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? <br />What! Still there? <br />O sweet soul, but once behold Him, <br />With the glory-crowned hair; <br />And those eyes, so strange and tender, <br />Waiting there; <br />Open! Open! Once behold Him,- <br />Him, so fair. <br /> <br />Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me, <br />Coming ever to perplex me? <br />For the key is stiffly rusty, <br />And the bolt is clogged and dusty; <br />Many-fingered ivy-vine <br />Seals it fast with twist and twine; <br />Weeds of years and years before <br />Choke the passage of that door. <br /> <br />Knocking! Knocking! What! still knocking? <br />He still there? <br />What's the hour? The night is waning,- <br />In my heart a drear complaining, <br />And a chilly, sad unrest! <br />Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me, <br />Scares my sleep with dreams unblest! <br />Give me rest, <br />Rest,-ah, rest! <br /> <br />Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee; <br />Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure, <br />Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure, <br />Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping, <br />Waked to weariness of weeping;- <br />Open to thy soul's one Lover, <br />And thy night of dreams is over,- <br />The true gifts He brings have seeming <br />More than all thy faded dreaming! <br /> <br />Did she open? Doth she? Will she? <br />So, as wondering we behold, <br />Grows the picture to a sign, <br />Pressed upon your soul and mine; <br />For in every breast that liveth <br />Is that strange, mysterious door;- <br />Though forsaken and betangled, <br />Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled, <br />Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;- <br /> <br />There the pierced hand still knocketh, <br />And with ever patient watching, <br />With the sad eyes true and tender, <br />With the glory-crowned hair,- <br />Still a God is waiting there.<br /><br />Harriet Beecher Stowe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/knocking-5/
