The Beatific Vision

I SLEPT one night at Wawona,
Where steep Sierras rise —
Nine-thousand feet of pine-clad heights
Up to the sun-lit skies;
Here Half Dome and El Capitan
Each rears a rugged head
Above Yosemite Valley,
In Merced River bed.

The barking dogs and bleating lambs,
The shepherd and his sheep,
Were passing upward in the dark,
They waked me from my sleep.
I thought of souls — a silent host,
Who plod by day and night
To reach the grassy highlands, where
Nothing obscures the light —

The weary workers of the world,
Who spend their days in labor
Or doing deeds that must be done
For love of God or neighbor,
To find release and peace, at last,
When they have reached the height,
And Beatific Vision
Delights their failing sight.