Poems

Not yet with distant seas of blue Doth merge the fountains of my heart! In wayside wells, Where Love upswells, I duty find in quiet vales apart; And keeping to my purpose true, Flow on. And yet, shall Love e'er know a sea That distant is? with broader sky Than this of mine? Can thought define Else than the here and now? Shall ever eye Behold where duty may not be? Flow on.

Unleash thy hopes and spur them onward to the goal, Unsatisfied with part, aspiring to the whole. By Love impelled, thought, tarry not! And day by day Encumbrances lay off, to seek the heav'nly way.

Whatever storms upon my soul arise. However dark and threatening the skies; However far from well-known paths I go To face conditions which I do not know; No matter what the cares I have to meet, Still let my faith in Thee be pure, complete, Unshaken, changeless.

When day's toil at last is done, And deep'ning shadows veil the sun, Whose warm rays fade beyond the hill; When white gull's wings at last are still, And peace is on the far blue deep; The bird, the bee, the flower asleep— The new moon's silver horn swings low, And ev'ning star shines out aglow. Dwell thou in secret place most High, With Him who watches ever nigh.

He only knows life's greatest peace, Its deepest sense of loss and gain, Whose inmost thought has found surcease From sorrow, care, and wearing pain, In knowing God as Life. He only knows life's greatest joy, Its one triumphant, ceaseless song, Whose life is just, — knows no alloy Of hidden sin or flagrant wrong, — For God, he knows, is Truth.

From gold to gray Now pales each twinkling star, For dawns the day; And in the east afar, From gray to gold. And with a tranquil light That grows more bold.

How came the carnal lie From out the cavernous home of perfidy. To weave its woeful cobweb o'er the sky? From what foul haunt of infamy and shame Think ye the fleshly load of horror came.

Lo, here the self-same hope of ancient springs, To meek arbutus-hearts doth first appear; And joyous border-realms of budding things Resurgent, conquer winter's grim frontier: These floral pilgrims, perfume-shod and shy. From snow-wrapt slopes breathe tribute to the sky.

" Shepherd , show me how to go!" The bells ring out this prayer in rhyme — The weary one, tossed to and fro By mortal fears that ebb and flow, Pauses to listen to the chime That brings to him a hope sublime, From echoing prayer, so soft and low — "Shepherd, show me how to go!" "Shepherd, show me how to go!" A woman's heart gives forth the song. Before the altar bending low.

Father , the tithes are in! Within Thy house is gathered all my store; All I possess I now have counted o'er, And here I lay it down. Would it were more! Father, the tithes are in! Father, my tithes are in! Weary, and yet triumphant, do I stand With emptied heart and waiting, outstretched hand; And only Thou and I can understand How all my tithes are in.