Poems

The promise of the distant day, The former time, the far away. For which the people watch and pray, — The Comforter! When will that happy time be here? The world awaits in doubt and fear; When will within our midst appear The Comforter? Lo, here and now all may be free! The day has dawned for you and me.

The devious paths of worldly glory lay Before me, and my heart exultant rose, In self-sufficient pride, to choose of those One for myself,—nor word nor deed might stay My eagerness for self-sought, self-made fray Against self-chosen, self-evoked foes. Yet strange the battle went.

When men shall stand alone with God, Forgetful of the things behind, Determined not to flinch nor fawn Upon their purpose well defined; Then shall the path which God hath planned Be strewn with flowers by human hand.

Laudations few this weary world receives; But we, this age, shall nowise stint our meed of praise, For through the open windows of its skies Have come, upon the wings of morn, Chaste dawn-tints of the day beyond, To rest within a woman's waiting heart, Whose love, as Christ's, unveils this holy noon to us. It glows from thence unto all journeying souls, And with its radiance glorifies their ways.

The way I cannot always see That leads to higher things, But yet I know God guideth me, And heav'n to me He brings. 'Tis He who calls me, and although I may not always hear His gentle voice, yet still I know That He is ever near.

When smiled the morning in my night-dimmed eyes, I, sighing recognition, used to say, O God, for me another weary day Through which to creep, though this spent strength denies Support for one day's feeble ministries. Too frail my pilgrim staff, too long the way Ere I attain the heights this mortal clay Knows not, blind in its futile, vain surmise.

From death's illusion we shall wake to know There is no death: 'tis but the changing show Of sin's necessity, the ebb or flow Of falsehood's ocean, ever surging, sighing Unto the pitying stars, and vainly trying To wed earth's falsity to Truth undying. Vain is the effort, and the issue vain, There is but discord in the dark refrain, Tis but a phantom of the frenzied brain.

Come Thou at dawn! With the first streaks of light That creep unbidden to our waking sense, We rise to greet thee with a joy intense— Thou art our might! Come Thou at noon! If on life's battlefield We fail to see Thee in the smoke and stress, Checking the ardor of our worldliness— Thou art our shield! Come Thou at eve! When, as the sun declines, In deep'ning twilight shade we lose the day, We know 'tis we ourselves have turned away— The light still shines! Come Thou at night! Should sickness seem to hide For one brief hour Thy never-failing grace, Or sin disguise the brightness of Thy face, Thou still dost bide!

The beauteous morn dawned flamed in pink O'ershot with lustrous clouds of gold, And trembling there the promise fair Of all the gladsome hours should hold. The full noon came to perfect prime And waned pomegranate-red away.

There came to me a vision of the world  Governed by good, illumined by the light  Of harmony and by the radiance of Truth!  There through melodious space the sons of God  Circled in beauty, and in bliss  From star to star—from golden land to land.  There blossomed lilies—blossoms deathless and divine!  There all was energy, yet all was peace! Lo, man reflected Love, and realized  Creation as the pure idea of Mind.