All Saints.

They are flocking from the East     And the West,     They are flocking from the North     And the South,     Every moment setting forth     From realm of snake or lion,     Swamp or sand,     Ice or burning;     Greatest and least,     Palm in hand     And praise in mouth,     They are flocking up the path     To their rest,     Up the path that hath     No returning.     Up the steeps of Zion     They are mounting,     Coming, coming,     Throngs beyond man's counting;     With a sound     Like innumerable bees     Swarming, humming     Where flowering trees     Many-tinted,     Many-scented,     All alike abound     With honey, -     With a swell     Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable     From a shadowed dell     To the hill-tops sunny, -     With a thunder     Like the ocean when in strength     Breadth and length     It sets to shore;     More and more     Waves on waves redoubled pour     Leaping flashing to the shore     (Unlike the under     Drain of ebb that loseth ground     For all its roar.)     They are thronging     From the East and West,     From the North and South,     Saints are thronging, loving, longing,     To their land     Of rest,     Palm in hand     And praise in mouth.