Do not open that one though. 
It is real; but if you go
Careless to it, as to dance,
You’ll see nothing for your glance;
Blankness, deafness, blindness, dumbness,
Soon will stare you to a numbness. 
No, my friend; it is not wise
To open doors into the skies,
As into a little study,
Where a feeble brain grows muddy. 
Wait till night, and you shall be
Left alone with mystery;
Light this lamp’s white softened ray,
(Another wonder by the way,)
Then with humble faith and prayer,
Ope the door with patient care: 
Yours be calmness then, and strength
For the sight you see at length.

Sometimes, after trying vainly,
With much effort, forced, ungainly,
To entice the rugged door
To yield up its wondrous lore,
With a sudden burst of thunder
All its frame is dashed asunder;
The gulfy silence, lightning-fleet,
Shooteth hellward at thy feet. 
Take thou heed lest evil terror
Snare thee in a downward error,
Drag thee through the narrow gate,
Give thee up to windy fate,
To be blown for evermore
Up and down without a shore;
For to shun the good as ill
Makes the evil bolder still. 
But oftener far the portal opes
With the sound of coming hopes;
On the joy-astonished eyes
Awful heights of glory rise;
Mountains, stars, and dreadful space,
The Eternal’s azure face. 
In storms of silence self is drowned,
Leaves the soul a gulf profound,
Where new heavens and earth arise,
Rolling seas and arching skies.

Gathers slow a vapour o’er thee
From the ocean-depths before thee: 
Lo! the vision all hath vanished,
Thou art left alone and banished;
Shut the door, thou findest, groping,
Without chance of further oping. 
Thou must wait until thy soul
Rises nearer to its goal;
Till more childhood strength has given—­
Then approach this gate of Heaven: 
It will open as before,
Yielding wonders, yet in store
For thee, if thou wilt turn to good
Things already understood.

Why I let such useless lumber
Useful bookshelves so encumber? 
I will tell thee; for thy question
Of wonders brings me to the best one. 
There’s a future wonder, may be—­
Sure a present magic baby;
(Patience, friend, I know your looks—­
What has that to do with books?)
With her sounds of molten speech
Quick a parent’s heart to reach,
Though uncoined to words sedate,
Or even to sounds articulate;
Yet sweeter than the music’s flowing,
Which doth set her music going. 
Now our highest wonder-duty
Is with this same wonder-beauty;
How, with culture high and steady,
To unfold a magic-lady;
How to keep her full of wonder
At all things above and under;
Her from childhood never part,
Change the brain, but keep the heart. 
She is God’s child all the time;
On all the hours the child must climb,