Beth-el

A RUGGED stone,

For centuries neglected and alone,—

Its destiny unknown.

The tide of light

Sped o’er it, and the breakers of the night,

In alternating flight.

And it was wet

With twilight dew, the sacramental sweat

That mystic dreams beget.

There Jacob lay,

Dark struggling, till the wrestler, white as day

Brake from his arms away.

Upon the sod

A pillow; then, by countless angels trod,

A stepping stone to God.