Classic Poem

I SAW this eve the wandering sun—
Spent was his purse of gold—
Sink at his father's door, foredone,
As the day grew old.

Then from within the western wall
Such floods of glory spread—
“They keep,” I thought, “high carnival
For one they held as dead.”

And I thought of how Love's Prodigal
Came home on bloodless feet
To His Father's house and festival
And the right-hand seat.