Poems

The legend runs: When men in ancient days Did stated service in the temple courts, And when their work was o'er, again came forth Into the garish light of common ways, Then on them blindness fell, nor did it lift Until the half-forgotten homely tasks Familiar grew, and earthly ministries Once more revealed the world to holden eyes. And ever thus it was, and passing strange: Sight while they served within the temple court, But blindness when they walked among their kind; Nor could they hold that vision of the light And render service midst their fellow-men.

How much of loving service we owe God For all the years we quailed before His name, Charging all evils to His chastening rod, For hell itself imputing Him the blame. We thought it was His will that made the shore From north to south one long uncovered grave; That when the booming surf with thunderous roar Deepened the storm, it was the sign He gave.

Into the soft surrounding air A flower grew, Straight and tall and wondrous fair, Of perfect hue. Into the warm surrounding air, All the day long, It breathed a soft, sweet-sounding prayer, Like to a song.

We are proclaimed, even against our wills— If we are silent, then our silence speaks— Children from tumbling on the summer hills Come home with roses rooted in their cheeks. I think no man can make his lie hold good,— One way or other, truth is understood.

By law from Sinai's clouded steep A toiling world was blest; And still the listening nations keep The day of sacred rest. Renewed to peace and power and joy, Man's soul is free this day; Nor task nor care our minds employ; We need but love and pray.

The doubting grope to God with footsteps slow, The path is stony, and the thistles grow. With bleeding feet they stumble as they go, And longing cry, O Father, help us know! A bird is singing sweetly overhead; A blossom nestles in its dewy bed; A hungering heart with living bread is fed; A child's pure faith that asks but to be led.

The quest of beauty, and the keen desire To hold her captive and to gain her throne, Long time had tilled me with a quenchless fire To make her sweet perfections all mine own. Long did I dream, by beauty's spell beguiled; I saw the substance and satiety Of all completeness, wholly reconciled By nature's king, in nature's harmony: I deemed that he who drinks the draught of song, Sung by the woods and waves and hills untrod, And sings in tune thereto, to him belong The things of beauty, and of beauty's God.

Some one had said that I was in the wrong; Some one had but advised with kind intent, Yet this correction hurt and rankled long; I could not take the help as it was meant. Then came another friend with earnest eyes, And I must tell her how the words had stung.

It matters not what be thy lot, So Love doth guide; For storm or shine, pure peace is thine, Whate'er betide. And of these stones, or tyrants' thrones, God able is To raise up seed—in thought and deed— To faithful His.

Heaven is no distant walled abode, Reached with our closing breath; We enter through the gate of Life, And not the gate of death: 'Tis where God is and sheds His care,— And God is with us everywhere. He dwelleth not above the stars, In regions far apart: Heaven is not won by change of place, But by a change of heart.