Classic Poem

The Master stood in the narrow street
Where Lazarus lived of yore,
And his eyes were turned to a woman's face
That smiled from the low-beamed door;
Oh, the face was tender and dear to see,
But the Master's was troubled sore.

The long road climbed to the hills beyond,
Dusty and white with heat;
Weary to death was the Master then,
Bleeding and worn his feet;
But there at the threshold his heart stood still,
And he paused in the narrow street.

And often I wonder what dreams he saw
In that face at the doorway dim;
ATher parted lips, and her great dark eyes,
Did his vision sudden swim,
While tinier faces leaned from hers
To smile and beckon him?