They tell of harps and golden crowns, and singing, <br />But oh, I think, when ends the strife and pain, <br />That our dear Lord will lead the souls that love Him <br />Where are green grass and trees, and soft spring rain; <br /> <br />Where are no scorching suns, or skies drought-blazing, <br />But dear grey clouds with sunshine stealing through <br />In level rays, o’er distant wooded valleys, <br />And still green pools, with waterlilies blue. <br /> <br />And those who sought to save drought-ridden creatures, <br />And struggled bravely with the grim old earth, <br />The God of all true hearts will surely give them <br />Rest from their labours in a new world’s birth: <br /> <br />When they shall feel the fresh wind in their faces, <br />Fragrant with clover scents and summer shower, <br />And they shall praise Him in green silent places, <br />Who, like St. Francis, loved each tree and flower; <br /> <br />Who sae their God in all the changing seasons, <br />And never failed, or flinched, or Faith denied, <br />For evermore their loving Lord shall lead them <br />Where are green woods, and rolling pastures wide.<br /><br />Alice Guerin Crist<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dream-of-heaven/
