Poems

For one brief hour upon the breath of spring A gleam of heaven-born happiness I bring: Out of the vast unknown, Out of the crystal zone Of all that's beautiful I flash and fly And float — I know not why! Out of the morn's empurpled empyrean, A tone of Truth's harmonious harp, a pæan, A strain of tuneful song, I flit the flowers among, A portion of the pageant of a dream, Part of the bright sunbeam. Upon the target of the tall sunflower— The golden house that Love has made my dower— I drink the nectar draught; And, when my thirst has quaffed, I seek the meadows and the myriad bells Knolling their silvery knells.

Love leadeth me! By the long way or by the slow, By paths I long have sought to know, Through prayers that have been breathed so low, That only His clear listening ear Could my importunings hear. Hour by hour through shade or shine, He holds the plummet and the line— The days are bright, the nights divine, Enough to know—through Life's full glow I travel on—enough to know— Love leadeth me!

Beyond the falling leaves, the lapse of days, The instability, the changing ways, Is primal harmony, the song of praise. The leaves lie deep upon the mountain slopes, The mist the moorland holds and envelopes, As dim, dark memories hide all earthly hopes: What though the night be starless and forlorn? What though a sigh on every breeze is borne? Beyond us is the glory of the morn! Let the dead past her shrouded dead conceal 'Neath the dead leaves; our quickening lives reveal We are new-born, new-made from head to heel.

Condemned in thought? Dear Lord, Thou know'st my care Lest in my inmost heart, to Thee laid bare, Lurk aught that could not brook Thy vision fair. Thou knowest all my life, nor dost accuse; And shall I yield in bonds to those who choose, Forgetting Thee, Thine own to sore abuse? Condemned in word? Nay, Lord, while Thou art nigh, And safely in Thy secret place I lie, The clamor of the rabble passeth by; And I am dumb, the while Thy voice is heard Proclaiming through my lips Thy potent word; Nor need I fear the depths of error stirred.

A song was born in the heart of Love, To leap in flame from the lips thereof— A song of rapture, whose rhythmic grace Brimmed the epic silence of space; A song of wonder, a song of might, Its measures life, its melody light; A song of glory, its thundered theme Truth imperial. Truth supreme.

Here in this shrine of harmony and peace, Illusive discords and despairings cease. Here pure and gracious flowers star the air, Shedding their silent sweetness everywhere! And here are uttered only lovely things, Angels of thought, with healing in their wings, That tear the veil from matter's false disguise, And lift the heavy scales from Christless eyes! E'en as of old, to hill-crowned Galilee Thronged the infirm and cried their misery Aloud to Jesus Christ, and round him prest, So throng the stricken to this place of rest, Hung'ring for healing; and, behold, they find That sordid mortal sense alone is blind! And this by Truth corrected cannot seem To bind them to a tortured mortal dream! For man is ever spiritual and free; God's children dwell in God's own harmony!

A flower in a vase, Set tall and fair; A glint of glowing gold And perfume rare; One flower in a vase— Yet love was there! A curtain drawn aside, A day to share; God's sunshine streaming in, And spring's sweet air; One window to the sky— And love was there! A room in beauty set, By hands that dare To do the simple things, And burdens bear; One tiny, hidden room— Yet love was there! A light for tired feet, Far up the stair; One waiting just beyond In quiet prayer— O pilgrim, enter soft, For love is there!

O human love, that pleads and cries for self, Be still! and bind not earthly ties that irk And seem to curse the ones they fain would bless— Be still! and know that Love divine rules all. Selfishness can but darken all the thought, And vain imaginations of the heart Would drive from off the earth a selfless love Whose dovelike wings are folded in the ark, Waiting in patient, sacred secrecy The slow assuaging of the floods of sin.

Soft as the tears upon the lids of night, Upon the droughty land my drops alight To loose the bounden earth, To tend the violet's birth. To weave upon the woodland and the hill Garlands — and garlands still ! Canst thou not tell my touch upon the pane, My lisping laughter in the sweet refrain Of wind and wave and sky? And, when the storm is high, My clamorous beat, that mingles with the call Of foss and foam and fall ? I give my gift of bounties uncurtailed, Of growth, and grace unvaried and unveiled ; By me the desert grows The myrtle and the rose, And every blade beneath the heaven of blue Drinks of my crystal dew.

Though darkness shrouds a sleeping world, The little brook still sings ; And hark! o'erhead a happy trill And stir of drowsy wings As wakened bird pours out his heart Upon the silent night ; And there upon the brooklet's edge, Upturned to greet the light. The trusting face of tiny flower Serenely waits the sunrise hour! E'en so would I show perfect trust, Though long may seem the night : E'en so with calmness turn my face To greet the morning light ; E'en so know neither doubt nor fear, The while my glad heart sings : The Sun of righteousness shall rise With healing in His wings ; The healing truth that maketh free The world's enslaved, aye, you and me!