Poems

Giver of all good gifts, I thee implore: Open the eyes that still are closed and blind, Enlarge our hearts to know thee more and more The Soul and source of all,—eternal Mind,— The Father, Mother, God of all mankind. O Love divine, that holdest in thine hand This orbed earth, the countless stars of light, How can I hope to come and take my stand Immaculate and sinless in thy sight! 'Tis Love alone can wash my garment white.

Each heart has had its own Gethsemane, Where agony and gloom and darkness be; Its Pilate Hall, where justice seemed denied; Its Calvary Hill, where self was crucified; Its tomb, where that we deemed most precious had been laid In winding-sheet of memories which made The dead hope seem a thing of death the more, And a great stone was rolled against the door. But lo, the Angel of His Presence whispers, "Rise, Put on thy beauteous garments.

How shall I sing of Him who dwells on high, — The mighty Ruler of the starry sky, Who binds Orion's belt and yokes the Wain Septentrion, that ploughs the northern main, Who is the Life of every living thing, — How shall I sing? How shall I sing? I need not tell His glory to the stars, They know Him well, He guides their glittering cars; Nor need l breathe His name to fern or flower, He gives their sweetness every golden hour; His praise is proved by every blade and bell,— They know Him well, they love Him well. I'll tell my tale to every broken heart That waits and weeps alone, aside, apart; Hushed are the harps of song, blind lead the blind, And madness raves upon the roaring wind; Men tread the same sad path their fathers trod, Who knew not God: they know not God.

My gratitude to her Is shining in my heart with dew. My gratitude to her Clings like the scent of lavender.

Thou sweet, beloved will of God, My anchor-ground, and fortress-hill, My spirit's silent, fair abode. In thee I hide me and am still.

Our senses can but teach what seems, Never what is; not truth, but dreams. The passing pictures fade away While yesterday becomes to-day; Neither the pictures while they fade , Nor the swift moments while surveyed, Are more than counterfeits which pass Mockingly mirrored on the glass.

"You call me Master, and you ask me nothing. "You call me the Light, and you do not see me.

Clouds fill the skies and hide the blue, Their leaden pall no light breaks through. Swift falls the rain, keen blows the wind, E'en storm-bird hastes to shelter find.

A song is in my heart, For blessings by the way; The old year now departs, And portals of the day Swing back and open wide For holier, new desires To enter and abide. May contemplation be, Each hour, O Love, of Thee— Then, when is passed the year, No vain regret, nor tear, But from the heart A song borne forth; A lay without alloy— My symphony of joy!

How fair is the world to-day! Are the skies cloudy, looks it like rain? See, they are surely blowing away, For now I have no more pain. Oh, listen to the music of that bell! In joyousness intense we stand, While its glorious echoes fill The waiting ears of the listening land.